The Time Capsule Series
by Steve2
Summary: SERIES COMPLETE! Read how students in the future interpret today's life. Stories include: Jane, Brittany, Tiffany, Kevin, Sandi, Upchuck, 3 J's, Trent, Jodie, Stacy, Mack, Daria & Quinn.
1. Prolog

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!**

The Time Capsule

Prolog 

**By Steven Brown**

June, 2002.

Present day.  Lawndale High.  School is over.  It is the break before summer school begins.  Time: Night.

Daria and Jane, dressed in black pants, shirts, knit caps with dark smudges around their faces like commandos are skulking down a hallway.  They keep to the shadows.  The school is quiet and dark, but some residual moonlight filters into the hallways from the classroom windows.

Jane:                                       …well then, can you at least answer one thing for me?

Daria:                                      No, the jacket doesn't make you look fat.

Jane:                                       One more crack of you mistaking me for Quinn and I'm pulling the first fire alarm we come across.

Daria:                                      You mean they actually work?

Jane:                                       Sure.  How else do you think the faculty gets their pizza's on such short notice?

Daria:                                      The fire department delivers pizza's?

Jane:                                       Only between 5-alarmers.  I tell  you, ever since Ms. Li got on the city council…

Daria:                                      Okay, okay, enough already.  What's the question?

Jane:                                       How do I let you drag me into these things?

Daria:                                      What things?

Jane:                                       Oh, you know.  Breaking into high school comes to mind.

Daria:                                      Oh, that.  Blackmail.

Jane:                                       You wish.  

Daria:                                      It's your civic duty?

Jane:                                       You wish.

Daria:                                      It's a moral imperative?

Jane:                                       I've **just got to learn what these "morals" are one day.**

Daria:                                      You wish.

Jane:                                       So what're we up to this time?  I'm only asking so I know what to put down on my confession once we're arrested for breaking and entering.

Daria:                                      I want to know what's going on with that time capsule that Li's burying behind the west wall interior locker grid-7.

Jane:                                       The same time capsule that Trent…

Daria:                                      You know of another one?

Jane:                                       Details, then.

Daria:                                      Li's up to something.  We have to write our stories and come up with some crap for the capsule for her.  She produces them and gets some funding from the school board to complete the process.  But she doesn't make it known when or where she's putting the time capsule – only that she'd do it before school started next semester.  The question is why?

Jane:                                       No, the question is how do you know where and when the time capsule is being buried.

Daria:                                      Let's just say a little bird told me (smirks).

Jane:                                       I've **just ****got to get one of these little birdies.**

They round a dark corner.  A security guard walks in the distance.  They stop and melt into the shadows of a doorway.  A few moments later, the security guard gone, they resume their walk.

Jane:                                       Waitaminute.  You're not still mad at Li because of the picture are you?

Daria:                                      … mrumble …. grumble ….

Jane:                                       You knew she was going to do it.

Daria:                                      True.  But I don't have to like it nor did I like the picture she used.

Jane:                                       That's not all you're upset with, is it?

Daria:                                      No.  She wouldn't accept my donation to the time capsule.

Jane:                                       What was it again?

Daria:                                      Some Sea Monkeys.

Jane:                                       Oh, that's right.  You wanted to put in a living Sea Monkey colony.  What was she thinking not to include it?

Daria:                                      Darn straight.  They'd have made great mutants in a hundred years.

Jane:                                       Damn bureaucrats – always stopping scientific fun just when it gets hairy.

Daria:                                      Dicey.

Jane:                                       Huh?

Daria:                                      Not hairy – but dicey.

Jane:                                       Dice have hair?

Daria:                                      That's the end of the show, folks.  Thanks for coming.

They round another corner and come to the locker area.  The locker grid has been removed from the wall and are leaning against the opposite wall.  A hole has already been knocked into the wall and the time capsule is in it.  Bags of plaster are nearby indicating the work of resealing the wall will be finished in the next day or two.

Daria and Jane walk up to the time capsule.  They open the door and shine in a light with the flashlight they brought along.

Jane:                                       (gasps) This isn't what we donated or wrote.

Daria:                                      Nope.  I already found all that in the school's dumpster last week.  That's why I wanted to see what she was putting in here instead.  Who would've thought it would be this, though.

Jane:                                       No kidding. (beat)  We can't let her get away with it.

Daria:                                      I don't intend to.  It's a moral imperative we put a stop to it.

Jane:                                       There you go about that moral thingie again.  (beat)  So whatdaya gonna do?

Daria:                                      What I'm going to do is put our donations back in this time capsule.

Daria removes items from the backpack she'd been lugging around.  Among the clutter is a set of CD's.

Jane:                                       (picks up CD's) Um, I take it you burned all our stories to CD, right?

Daria:                                      Right.

Jane:                                       Just a simple observation, but how do you know they'll survive for a hundred years?  I mean, if it's a bad idea to use magnetic storage media like tapes or floppies for long time storage as it degrades and becomes unreadable after some 20-30 years, who's to say the same won't happen to these CD's?

Daria:                                      I see you've been taking your supersmart pills again.

Jane:                                       I do what I done did.

Daria:                                      You've got a point there, Jane.  It was a difficult situation … which amazingly had an easy solution.  Simply encase it in an inert environment that is structured to survive a century.

Jane:                                       And I take it you just happen to have one on you?  

Daria:                                      Actually, yes.

Daria pulls out a plastic baggie for the CD's and then seals it up.

Jane:                                       I don't think that'll work for a century.

Daria:                                      I have to agree with you on that one.  This is just to keep it from getting messy.  Now I'll store it in the inert environment.

Daria pulls out a box, opens a slit on it and stuffs the bag of CD's inside.

Jane:                                       (deadpan) That's a box of Twinkies.

Daria:                                      The food that was manufactured to survive a nuclear war.

Jane:                                       No fallout shelter should be without some.

Daria:                                      Or time capsule.

Jane:                                       But what if they still degrade to un-usability?

Daria:                                      Go to the backup plan I suppose.

Jane:                                       Really?  You went through with it?

Daria:                                      Li's not the only one with something to hide.

Daria and Jane remove everything from the time capsule and re-insert it with the student donations.  Daria then stuffs her backpack with all the things that Li had in the time capsule.  They close the safe's door. 

Jane:                                       Do you think we're doing the right thing?

Daria:                                      Ask me again in a hundred years.

Jane:                                       What do you think this pamphlet Li had stashed means?

Daria:                                      Roughly translated it means 'Come to Cuba where for the right price you too can get sweatshop workers producing your school needs'.  That puts a damper on those school funding activities doesn't it.

Jane:                                       We had school funding activities?  I've just got to pay more attention to those school bulletins.

Daria:                                      We've already graduated, Jane.

Jane:                                       Your point being?

Daria and Jane, their task complete, skulk out the same way they came in.

FIFTY YEARS LATER 

December, 2051.

Friday.  Lawndale High.  The school is undergoing a renovation from the inside out.  The last school bell rings and students stream out.  Inside, two students watch a third bang on a locker.

Melvin:                                  Stupid stinkin' locker!  Open up, you mrumble mrumble piece of mrumble.  

Harry:                                     Jeez, Mel, for being on the football team you sure are working up a sweat opening your locker.

Melvin:                                  Shut up.  You're not helping.

Joey:                                       What's with your locker anyway?  

Harry:                                     Nothing's wrong with it other than it's just a rusted piece of crap.

Joey:                                       I'll be glad when they install the new lockers.

Melvin:                                  I won't.  True, these suck, but once they put in the new sensor-pad models all it's going to do is allow faster entry by security dorks looking for fast cash, dope, or late library books.  Jeez!  Open up you godblasted mrumble mrumble mrumble.

Harry:                                     You know, you **can** swear when you want to, Mel.  You know that, don't you?  It's a little thing called the 1st Amendment.  We covered it last semester in… oh, that's right.  You were asleep.

Melvin:                                  You're not making friends here, Harry.

Harry smiled.  Melvin always said that.

Melvin:                                  Besides, why give any more ammo to a malfunctioning Li-anism?  Last thing I want is my swearing broadcast on all the school's monitors.

Joey:                                       I thought they took out all the Li-anisms during the last renovation.

Harry:                                     Try not to think, Joey, you'll hurt yourself.  But, no, they didn't get them all.  Every so often one of old principal Li's locks or security safeguards will fail and reveal stashes of stuff nobody ever thought she had.  Electronics, cash, even an old fashioned lie detector.

Melvin continues to beat up his locker.  It just won't open.  Finally, he steps back and runs at it, putting all the force he could into a shoulder check.  The locker, being on the end, didn't open.  But it did have sufficient force to knock it, and the rest of the small group of lockers, loose from the wall and tilt them over.

Harry:                                     Hey, Mel.  Make sure to tell that locker who's boss.

Melvin ignored Harry's comment and shoved the lockers all the way over.  Behind his locker was a small metal door.

Melvin:                                  (panting hard)  What the hell's that?

Harry:                                     (face losing color)  Oh, shit.  It's a Li-anism.  Why couldn't they have locked her up before she put in all this crap?  

The metal door opens and inside is a small safe, tumbler lock clearly visible.

Joey:                                       You think there's money inside?

Harry:                                     Knowing Li's penchant for penny-pinching?  Probably.

Joey:                                       You want to take it to shop and try to open it?  I can fire up the welder pretty quick.

Melvin:                                  What, you crazy or something?  Didn't you hear what happened to one of the janitors a couple years back when he found something like this?  He got his face half dissolved from some flying acid trap that old bat Li safeguarded.  And for what?  Inside the safety deposit box was a key to a bus station that isn't even there anymore.  No way.  I say let Principal Martins knows what's here and let him deal with it.

Joey:                                       (evil grin) Yeah, that way maybe half of his face can be fried off.

Melvin:                                  Dissolved off, you dummy.

Joey:                                       Says you!

Harry:                                     You're a jerk, Joey.

Joey:                                       Back at you, jerk-wad.

*********

January, 2052.  

Tuesday.  Lawndale High.  History 363.

In the history class are 30 students sitting at their desks.  The desks look similar to what students sat in 50 years ago but are a one-piece unit made entirely of plastic, plus are hollow to allow cabling.  The new semester is beginning.  A teacher comes in.  She is in her 70's with white hair and looks like a typical grandmother, that is if a grandmother knew how to dress in the current day's fashions and carried a briefcase.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Okay, class, settle down.  It's good to see so many returning faces this semester.  I thought I'd scared most of you away last month.  Especially you, Dan.

Dan:                                        Oh, I could never be scared of your exams, Mrs. Whitmore.  Why, I just live for them.

A few chuckles are heard.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Careful, Dan.  These are new shoes and it's getting deep in here.  

A few more chuckles.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Okay, enough clowning around.  Welcome to History 363, what I call Recent History.  And what the school calls, one of those classes you need to take in order to graduate.  As you know from the course outline we will go to several museums, research topics you thought only your grandparents would have any interest in and get multiple tests, each ensuring that only a few of your will pass with an A.

Groans.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Or we could take what is behind door #2.  What's it to be, class?

Bob:                                        What's behind door #2?  And what are we talking about, anyway?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    We're talking about a decision here, folks.  The door is a metaphor.  You can either take what I've just outlined as the course or opt to go in another, unknown direction.  Either way, you will learn something.  

The class looks around at one another.  Thirty pair of shoulders shrug and Dan finally speaks up. 

Dan:                                        Uh, we'll take what's behind the mysterious imaginary door #2.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Good choice.  I was kind of bored with doing the regular routine in this class anyway.  Okay, here's the scoop.  As some of you may recall, last December one of former principal Li's hideouts was found by a member of your student body.  What you don't know was what was hidden in there.

Dan:                                        (having an idea where this was heading) I bet it has something to do with history.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Very good, Mr. Suni, you win a cookie.  Inside the hiding space was a time capsule.  I now have the contents of the capsule that are relevant to this class and no, Bob, it's not money so don't even think of asking me to invest in some of your sure-fire hot stocks.  (Mrs. Whitmore pulls out a large box and places it on her desk.)  In here are the contents of the safe.  You will be pleased to know no one was hurt while opening the safe, including principal Martins.

Groans.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Very funny.  Inside the time capsule were 16 containers.  In the first container was this… (she holds up a CD).  On it is written README FIRST.  Do any of you recognize what this is?

Colin:                                      It's an old CD isn't it?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Yes indeed, Colin.  

Bob:                                        Brown-noser.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    (to Colin) And for being so perceptive, you get the fun of opening it.  Unless you'd like to have a go at it, Bob.

Bob:                                        I'm cool.  Colin's better at this than I am.

Colin is given the CD.  He looks at it momentarily, flipping it over and over in his hands.

Dan:                                        How do you load it, Colin?

Colin:                                      I'm not sure.  I've done some research in Tech History and know this contains some sort of data, but I don't know how to read it.  Or load it.  

Barry:                                     How about sliding it past the IR reader on your laptop screen?

Colin:                                      I'd thought of that, but from what I remember they used a different form of reader.  Mrs. Whitmore, can I be excused for a few minutes?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Reason?

Colin:                                      I think Professor Barch still has an old time CD reader in the computer lab.  I thought I'd see if I could borrow it for a bit.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Confirm it first.

Colin quickly writes an e-mail and sends it.  A few moments later a reply comes in.

Colin:                                      He says I can borrow it.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    You're cleared for access.  You've got five minutes.

Colin races out the door.  A few minutes later he returns with a short looking box that he quickly attaches to the laptop on his desk.  The dangling power cable he attaches to the underside of the desk which was in turn cabled to run through the chair and attach into the subfloor power grid.  About 10 minutes go by while Colin powers up the box and reroutes files to support it.

Bob:                                        Jeez, Colin.  Can you go any slower?

Colin:                                      Stick it, Bob.  I'd like to see you try this.  Oh, wait.  You did last semester.  Just before you paid Dennis to finish up your coursework.  Okay, this sucker is powered up.  Let's give it a try.

Colin inserts the CD and it begins to make a loud sound.

Colin:                                      That can't be right.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    I'm afraid it is.  Just give it a few moments and try again, Colin.

A few minutes later the sound subsides and Colin begins researching the CD again.

Colin:                                      There's got to be a… mumble, mumble, grumble.  What the… BINARY?!  What were these people thinking back then?!  Does anyone here have a binary interface handy?

No answer.

Colin:                                      Mrs. Whitmore?  I'm going to need more resources to break this file.  Do you mind if I go online?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    By all means, Colin.  But just a word of direction – try searching for readme's.

Another 10 minutes go by while Colin researches the translation.  

Colin:                                      Okay.  I've got something.  There's been damage to the file so I couldn't get everything back, but here's what I've got.  Downloading to the board… now.

On the electronic blackboard, words began appearing.  There were gaps and obvious misspellings but something was showing up.  It read:

                                                So this is the future?  …….….. t suck.

                                                …. esteem  ….…...  don't take this too

                                                seriously ………..………. Li had dirt on

                                                a lot………………………. oh who am I 

                                                to lectur……………… enjoy these at 

                                                your own peril.

                                                                D. M. – 2002

Diane:                                     That's it?

Colin:                                      That's all I could get.  The file was damaged.  There'd probably been electronic activity near it for the past couple of decades.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    This letter was signed D. M.  Class, your first assignment is to find out who this D. M. is or was.  Whoever finds that out will be made the team lead for the rest of the semester as we work on determining what this time capsule contains.  Class ends in 40 minutes.  Get cracking.

The class quickly opens their laptops and begin clicking away.

Colin:                                      Hey, Ben, you get access to the Li archives yet?

Ben:                                        I'm in.  Ride my line.

Colin:                                      Got it.

Amy:                                      Aw, man.  We've got rogue code.  Who's got an open account to a code breaker?

Barry:                                     Yo.

Colin:                                      Yo.

The exercise goes on.  Slowly, it appears that only Barry and Colin have active links to a code breaker service and the others are either chatting away with one another or looking over the two student's shoulders to see what progress they've made.

Nick is still at work on his old laptop.  It looks old because it is.  

Nick:                                       Hey, Amy, do you…

Amy:                                      Not now, Nick.  I'm a little busy here.

Nick looked at the others and rubbed his forehead.

Nick:                                       Mrs. Whitmore?  May I go to the restroom?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    (Sizes up Nick) Go ahead.  Access is cleared.

He leaves.

Five minutes later.

Colin:                                      Jeez.  How much security did Li put into her software?  Barry, you doing any better over there?

Nick returns, book in hand.

Barry:                                     No.  I've almost dropped my desk-net a couple times with the volume of info I'm getting.  Only the search engines can't give me a lock on who D. M. is.

Nick:                                       (opens book) D. M. is Daria Morgendorffer.  

The class stops what they're doing and in order to stare at Nick.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Care to tell the rest of the class who you came by this tidbit of information, Nick?

Nick:                                       (holds up book) I went to the library and checked out the yearbook of 2002.  Then I searched for last names beginning with M and first names beginning with D in the senior class.  There was only one.

Bob:                                        Oh, come on.  Anybody could have looked that up in the library…

Mrs. Whitmore:                    And obviously, somebody who was an "anybody" did.

Barry:                                     That's not fair.  We needed to research this through the net…

Mrs. Whitmore:                    I never said that.  Congratulations.  We have a winner.  Nick is team lead for remainder of semester.  See me after class for workload.  The rest of you, we're ending early today.  See you Thursday.

Colin:                                      But… Nick?

Jim:                                         (begins laughing)

Colin:                                      What's so funny?

Jim:                                         How much did today's lesson cost you?  Probably a hundred, right?  Well, Nick used his wits and not his money to get the answer.  He won fair and square.  And here you guys are complaining that he cheated just because he didn't dig out his wallet to get an answer.  I think that's hilarious.  Way to go, Nick.

Several other students laugh at this as well while leaving.  A minute later Nick is alone in the classroom with Mrs. Whitmore.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    I think I'd have to agree with some of those comments, Nick.  You expanded your thinking outside the realm of computer resources.  Well done.

Nick:                                       Thanks, but it wasn't very hard to do.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    You'll note that none of the others thought of it until you showed up with that yearbook.

Nick:                                       That's because they had the resources at hand and didn't feel the need to find other non-spending avenues.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Ah.  Yes.  That.  (beat) How are your parents, by the way?

Nick:                                       Better.  My dad'll be coming home in a few months so maybe mom won't have to work as much.  Thanks again for helping me get a school grant, Mrs. Whitmore.  I really appreciate it.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    I taught your mother a long time ago, Nick.  If you're anything like her, it would be a crime to let your potential go to waste.  Now let's talk about the assignment.  My goals are simple.  I want you to tell me about each person who wrote a story in here and what the story means to you.  Plus, they each left something personal in the time capsule.  Tell me what it is and why you think they put it there.

Nick:                                       This might be a little difficult considering how much damage was done to the first disk.  We might have some serious data damage.  I'm surprised they didn't think of a better way to package it for the future, anticipating electronic corruption.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Who says they didn't?  (she reaches into her desk, pulls out an envelop and flips it to him)  Here.  A copy was made of each assignment and put on microfiche.  If you have any problems, refer to those.  Or if you want, you can access them on this A-O-L URL.

Nick:                                       A-O-L?  They're still around?  Who'd still use them?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    You'd be surprised.

Nick:                                       (looks at the microfiche first) Good idea to store these on hard plastic, but I think I'll have the class recover what they can electronically first from the CD's.  Some of them can really use the… challenge.  At worst, I'll sick them onto A-O-L if they complain too much.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    (grins) I'd like to see a story a week with analysis during class.  Your call how it gets done.  Your call how it gets graded.  Good luck.

TWO DAYS LATER 

Thursday.  

Location: Lawndale High.  History 363.

Nick:                                       … so that's the gist of it.  Each team will need to decode the files, rebuild any bad sectors – Jim's already working on that for the class – and give an analysis of both the story and the object each writer left behind.  I'd also like to know what became of each author.  Who are they – or were they?  What accomplishments have they made?  Are they still living?  What kind of life did they lead?  There are 15 authors so I'd like teams of two.  Any volunteers?  Keep in mind that I'll assign teams if no one volunteers.

The class quickly pairs up and icons on desktops change to indicate who is on what team, which is reflected on the electronic blackboard for everyone to see.

Nick:                                       Good enough.  Dan?  Does your mother still work at the TV studio?

Dan:                                        Yeah.

Nick:                                       You get the fun of working on an AV project one of the authors did.  Your project will take longer so you get most of the semester to work on it.  As for the rest of you, here's what I was able to find out on each person I'm assigning you to research.  Downloading now.

Nick downloads the information from his old laptop through the desk-net to the others in the class. A picture of each person participating in the project along with a name shows up on each screen.

Diane:                                     (viewing the information and the photos that come up) Where'd you get the pictures, Nick?

Nick:                                       I used my granddad's old scanner and grabbed them all out of the yearbook I had the other day.  This was about all I could find on such short notice.

Bob:                                        Old 2-D photos?  Please.  I could've done better than using old equipment like Nick has to.

Diane:                                     I'm sure you could have, Bob.  But would you have thought to do so?  I don't know about that.

Nick smiles at the small victory.  It wasn't often that someone with financial stability took the time to speak up for him.  At least, not in the past two years.

Nick:                                       One of the perks about being team lead is of course gaining full and direct access to the Li archive instead of only accessing the public lists.  I got my password yesterday, ran a few quick searches and was able to piece together some downloads.  I thought you all might find it interesting to see old recordings of how this project came about and maybe see some interaction of the person you'll be researching.  This is at least one area of Li's paranoia that came in handy.  Uploading… now.

On the electronic blackboard, Nick's presentation flickers to life.

BEGIN VIDEO 

September 2001.

Location: Lawndale High, hallway.  Time: morning.

Two students are standing at their lockers.  Video footage shows them being shot from ceiling, behind a vent.

Jane:                                       You should see it, Daria.  It's a real honest to god safe he salvaged from McGrudy's before they scrapped it.

Daria:                                      How big is it?

Jane:                                       Kinda small.

Daria:                                      Well, there goes my idea for getting rid of Quinn's body.

Jane:                                       That was assuming he would want to donate it to you in the first place.  But then again, I guess if you had worked your evil Morgendorffer charms on him, he would have been yours.

Daria:                                      That's not even funny, Jane.

Jane:                                       Yeah, I was stretching on that one.  I've got to get some new material from my writers.  But seriously, what do you think he'll do with it?

Daria:                                      Maybe he'll use it as a time capsule.  Who knows what he could bury in it.  

Jane:                                       Some of Mystik Spiral's lyrics would be good.

Daria and Jane smile at that.  Then a voice comes crashing over the loudspeakers.

Ms. Li (V.O.):                        Daria Morgendorffer and Jane Lane report to the principal's office immmmmmmediatly.

Jane:                                       How does she get that word out in one breath?

Daria:                                      Better question would be why.  Let's go visit our captor and complain about the bread and water privileges.

Jane:                                       Yeah.  Maybe we can get rid of the bread.

_Camera switch._

Location: Lawndale High, Principal Li's office.  Time: morning.

Ms. Li:                                    It's recently come to my attention that you two might know something about a time capsule.

Jane:                                       How do you know about it? 

Li:                                            Oh, a little bird told me.  

Daria:                                      What's the electronic frequency of this bird anyway?

Ms. Li:                                    Donating your time to a time capsule project.  Think of the possibilities I… **you could have with it.  I think it would be an excellent opportunity for you to show your true school spirit.**

Daria:                                      What color would that be?  Black?

_Time shift._

Location: Lawndale High, Principal Li's office.  Time: afternoon.

Daria and Jane are sitting in Ms. Li's office, nearly asleep and leaning on each other.  A knock on the door is heard and a bleary-eyed 20-something man walks in.

Trent:                                     Hey, Janey.  I got a call to come here and discuss your school performance.

Jane:                                       Principal Li called you this morning.

Trent:                                     I thought that was a dream.

Jane:                                       I called you an hour later.

Trent:                                     That was you?

Daria:                                      Do you know how long we've been in this office waiting for you?

Trent:                                     Can you give me a hint?  Time's a little fuzzy for me right now.

Ms. Li:                                    I'd like to get right to the point, Mr. Lane.  I'd like you to consider donating your salvaged safe for the glory of Laaaaaaaaawwwwnndale High's time capsule project.

Trent:                                     (arches eye) What's in it for me?  

Li:                                            I'll make sure your transcripts are released expeditiously when a college requests them.  

Trent:                                     Ho-heh-hah-hah-ha — cough-cough! Good one, Ms. Li.  

Li:                                            (to Daria) What did I say?  (to Trent) What do  you say, Mr. Lane? Will you donate it?

Trent:                                     I don't know.  I was going to use it for storing my toothbrush.  Maybe then I won't misplace it anymore…

Li:                                            How about I sweeten the pot a little more?  Donate it and I'll personally see to it that your sister passes her English class.

Trent:                                     (to his sister) Janey, I thought you were doing okay in your classes.

Jane:                                       I am. (beat) Mostly.

Trent:                                     Which ones aren't  you doing good in?

Jane:                                       Including English? (beat) English.

Trent:                                     Okay, Ms. Li…

Jane:                                       Hold on, Trent.  It's my fault I didn't study for the last couple of tests.  But that doesn't mean you can buy me a new grade. (Jane looks at Daria)  I got myself into this, I'll get myself out.  I still have time to brush up on my Shakespeare before the end of the semester.  (Quieter) That, or find a new way to torment Mr. O'Neill into giving me a passing grade.

Ms. Li:                                    What was that?

Jane:                                       (Louder)  That was me saying no deal, Ms. Li.

Ms. Li:                                    (Quietly) Plan B then.  (Louder) As you may not know, students, and former student, I have been known to misplace certain… documents from time to time.  If you would consider donating that time capsule, I might be able to find Miss Morgendorffer's transcripts.  If not, then I might just have to substitute the standard Pass/Fail listing for the past several years.

Jane:                                       The art of shakedown.  Who says you can't get an education these days.

Daria:                                      You can't do that.

Ms. Li:                                    **Can and ****have are two different things, Miss Morgendorffer.**

Trent:                                     Brutal, man.  But I can't let you do that to Daria…

Jane:                                       Hold on, Trent.  Sidebar, over here.

Trent and Jane conference in Ms. Li's office corner.

Jane:                                       Do you really want to give up your safe, Trent?

Trent:                                     It's cool. They paid me to get rid of it after all. I think Daria's education is more important than a stupid ol' safe. Besides, I can't find my toothbrush anyway – haven't for days.

Jane:                                       That's more information than I needed to know, Trent.  (to Li) Okay, Ms. Li, here's the deal.  Daria's transcripts get restored.

Daria:                                      Hold it…

Li:                                            Agreed.  I'm sure she'll get into a good school with these.

Daria:                                      Hey!  Knock it off already, guys!  No deal, Ms. Li.

Jane:                                       Daria… C'mon.  Your education's at stake.

Daria:                                      No it isn't.  It's an empty offer.  After all, Ms. Li wouldn't do anything that would tarnish the glory on Laaawwwnnndale High, would you, Ms. Li?  Especially when you know I can bring the full force of my mother's law firm down on you.

Ms. Li:                                    (Quietly) Curses.  (Louder)  You win round two.

Trent:                                     Rounds?  You're serving drinks now?

Ms. Li:                                    I take it sympathy is out?

Daria:                                      You take it right.

Ms. Li:                                    Fine.  You've backed me into a corner, Miss Morgendorffer.  I'm afraid I have no other choice but to ask… do you like your current picture in the yearbook?

Daria:                                      (perplexed) I don't understand.

Ms. Li:                                    You know.  Your senior year picture.  The one you will always be known with.  The one you have professionally taken and submit to the yearbook for insertion.

Jane:                                       Oh, that one.

Daria:                                      It's okay.

Ms. Li:                                    Yes, I'm sure it would be okay, Miss Morgendorffer.  snort  **If** it had made it to the yearbook on time.  Unfortunately, there was a mix-up and it landed on my desk instead.

Daria:                                      It won't work, Ms. Li.  I don't really care if my picture is in the yearbook or not.

Ms. Li:                                    Oh, that I understand, Miss Morgendorffer.  I fully intend to make sure it gets in the yearbook.  However, I noticed your lack of, shall we say… expression… in the picture and decided you would look much better, and better for the glory of Laaawwwnnndale High as you put it, if you were… (beat) …smiling.

Ms. Li reaches into a desk drawer and pulls out a picture (obviously faked) of Daria – and she's smiling.  However, she's missing her two front teeth.  And her jaw seems more square, more rigid, more… hairy, like a hockey player's smile who just played for 3 hours and won the game on a power play goal.

Ms. Li:                                    Now, how about that time capsule?

Trent:                                     Woah.  That's pretty dirty, man.

Jane:                                       That is the most fiendish ploy if I've ever seen one.

Ms. Li:                                    Flattery will get you nowhere, Miss Lane.

Daria:                                      No.

Trent:                                     Okay.  You got it.

Daria:                                      Trent….?

Trent:                                     Anything for a friend, Daria.  You know that.  'Sides, I'm sure the shocks on the Tank would appreciate not hauling it around any longer.

Daria:                                      Thanks, Trent.  (to Li)  Just promise me you won't use that picture.

Ms. Li:                                    Agreed.

_Time Shift.  _

Location: Lawndale High.  Mr. O'Neill's classroom.  Time: afternoon.

Date: 2 weeks later.  

In the classroom are 14 students along with Ms. Li and Mr. O'Neill.

Ms. Li:                                    Settle down, people.  First, I'd like to thank each of you for showing up.

Daria:                                      You  mean we had a choice?

Ms. Li:                                    As many of you may know, the faculty posted sign-up sheets around school for a Time Capsule project we are doing.  So far only Miss Landon and Mr. McKenzie have signed up.  I would like to have 15 students participate in this, minimum.

O'Neill:                                   Um, Ms. Li?  There are only 14 students here.

Ms. Li:                                    I'm aware of that, Timothy.  A former student, one Trent Lane, who also donated the time capsule for my… that is, the school's use, has already agreed to participate.  And since the rest of you have graciously decided to volunteer…

Daria:                                      (to Jane) Meaning she had dirt on the rest of us.

Li:                                            … I expect to see some exemplary work that will bring honor to me… uh… that is honor to Laaawwwwwnndale High!  

Stacy:                                     (raises hand) But what if we don't want to do it?

Ms. Li:                                    You'll be expelled and disgraced before your parents and have to work as a dishwasher for the rest of your life.

Stacy:                                     Eeep!

Jodie:                                      Ms. Li?  The sign-up sheet said we were going to write a fiction story that will be placed in the time capsule.  Wouldn't it be better to write something that is from real life?  Something that shows future generations of what it was like during our days here at Lawndale High?

Ms. Li:                                    What?  Let them know about how I… that is, how you interacted in school?  An excellent question, Ms. Landon.  The answer is no.

Jodie:                                      Why not?  I thought the idea of a time capsule is to capture a bit of current time for future generations.

Ms. Li:                                    Ho-ho-ho.  You students still crack me up.  No, Ms. Landon, that idea has been done to death.  What I want is something that has a little bit more pizzazz than any of those other projects.  After all, the school board award… er, that is, the **honor going to the most imaginative time capsule the school district and its students can produce will bring honor to our little school.**

Daria:                                      You used 'honor' in that sentence twice, you know.

Ms. Li looks at Mr. O'Neill.

Ms. Li:                                    I'm holding your teaching responsible for that, Timothy.  (to the class) I want stories and I want them soon before any of the other schools have a chance to copy my idea and get their own time capsule created.

Jane:                                       Does that mean we can write something in the here and now then?

Ms. Li:                                    (puts forehead in hand)  Write whatever you want.  Just get something written and make it snappy.

Ms. Li leaves.  Mr. O'Neill addresses the students.

Mr. O'Neill:                           Okay, everyone, we're going to have a wonderful time with this project.  

Jane:                                       Can I go home now?

Mr. O'Neill:                           Um, not yet, Jane.

Jane:                                       I thought you said we were going to have a wonderful time.  Going home is my idea of a wonderful time.

Daria:                                      (to Jane) Since when?

Jane:                                       Since I wouldn't be here at school.

Mr. O'Neill:                           Let's talk about our projects first and then we'll call it an early day, hmm?  Okay, class, here's what I want you to do – I'd like to each to write a story of your hopes and dreams for the future.  We'll collect them as you get them written and they'll go into the time capsule to be read by students a hundred years from now.  Isn't that exciting?

Daria:                                      (to Jane) As exciting as the last Superbowl.

Jane:                                       I thought you watched something else that Sunday.

Daria:                                      My point exactly.

Mr. O'Neill:                           Once you have your story done, bring it to me along with one personal item that you feel describes you in a simply fantastic way and we'll go over your grade.

Jane:                                       We're being graded on this project?  I thought it was voluntary.

Daria:                                      Knowing Ms. Li, I'd bet we're being graded on how we breathe.

Sandi:                                     (raises hand) Since I heard that it was, like, Quinn's cousin's boyfriend that caused all this mess, which is keeping me away from popular fashion research, can we write about our hopes and dreams for HER future?

O'Neill:                                   Who?

Quinn:                                    Um, what Sandi means, Mr. O'Neill, is can we write **anything about ****anyone, including but not limited to persons in this room?**

O'Neill:                                   If that's what you want to do, then by all means run with it!  Enjoy the experience of writing a story, of expressing yourself positively!  This is going to be fun!  Just make sure you write something.  We want something the future can remember us by, Sandi.

Sandi:                                     Oh, I'm positive I'll enjoy this. (she looks evilly at Daria and Jane)

Brittany:                                 Daria has a boyfriend?  Wow!  I didn't think brains were even allowed to date.

Kevin:                                    They're not, babe.  It's like a law or something.

Jodie:                                      (sighs) There's no such law, Kevin.

Brittany:                                 There's not?  Then Daria does have a boyfriend?

Daria's head hits the desk several times with loud thumps.  Jane tries to suppress laughter.

END VIDEO 

Nick:                                       That's all I've found so far.  I have a box for each team here which contains the artifact the author left behind along with the disk containing the data file.  Dan, yours is old video or film.  Sorry, I didn't research that enough.

Nick begins handing them out.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    This sounds much more interesting than what I had planned for the semester.  I'm looking forward to the first story and profile.  Obviously they put it in for a reason.  It would be interesting to know what that reason is.

Nick:                                       Jim.  Steve.  You get the first story.  Decode and present analysis next week.  (Nick drops the last package, a small box, on Steve's desk)  If you need any assistance, let me know.

Jim:                                         Who's the author?

Nick:                                       Jane Lane.

_NEXT:                                   Jane's story: Daria meets… Daria?_

Contact me if you want:

jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2001 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).  

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed.  Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you.  A coincidence!   To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real.  Or could it?  I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	2. Jane's Story Daria MeetsDaria?

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!**

**Daria meets … _Daria?_**

by Jane Lane 

(transcribed by Steve Brown)

**Saturday Night:**

She sat on her bed, looking out at the cold ground.  The snow had passed them by from the last storm and instead simply brought a bitterly cold wind.  Her window took the brunt of the wind blasts on this side of the house and she could almost smell winter coming through the glass.

It was night.  Not that late.  Not that early.

She sat alone.  As usual.  Typical.  No sense turning on the TV – it wasn't as if there was anything worth watching anyway.  Not with the Springer slug-a-neighbor-marathon having been pulled at the last minute because some exec thinking they'd lose some precious Tide or Puffs dollars.  But who was she kidding.  Even if it had been on, she wouldn't be watching it.

Instead she would simply be looking out at the night.

The 'rents and Quinn were gone and wouldn't be back for hours.  

She wasn't writing.  

She was just sitting and contemplating.  

She had feigned a migraine to stay home.  

She'd been doing that more and more.

Her family had moved to Lawndale a year ago.  She still didn't have any friends.  Sure, she could talk with Jodie and Brittany, even Kevin if she dumbed her thinking down to his sub-moronic level to understand what he said, but that wasn't really talking – that was responding to their questions.  

So she sat in her room.  

At night.

And thought.  

On Monday she would be going to the Self-Esteem class.  Again.  This would be her 6th time.  She knew the routine by heart and could skip going if she told O'Neill what he wanted to hear – but what else did she have to do?  She didn't want to come home to either an empty house or a house full of fashion fiends – and she sure didn't want to hang around school in clubs – AAAAAHHHH!!   A fate worse than Li!

She could always get an after-school job if she wanted, and her mother might get off her back if she did, but she'd given a compelling argument against it by stating that her good grades would falter and she might not get a scholarship to an Ivy league school and instead her parents would have to put her through both undergrad and grad school at full tuition.  Plus books.  Once she tallied up the staggering cost of those years vs. that of a couple years worth of an after-school job for minimum wage – well, that had caused her dad to nearly burst an eye when he saw the sums involved.  Her mother had dropped any further discussions after that.

Truth was, though, she knew she could've gotten a job and her grades wouldn't have suffered.  Learning came very easy to her.  And it wasn't like she had anything else to do anyway.  But… she just wasn't motivated to get a job.  Why should she?  Her sister seemed intent on getting a free ride from her parents.  Why shouldn't she?  

Sigh.

She knew that was the wrong approach to take.  She knew it down to her core.  It didn't have anything to do with Quinn or the 'rents.  She knew that as well.  

What she didn't know was why it bothered her so much or what to do to resolve it.

No, that wasn't entirely true either.

And so she sat.  

And thought.  

And stared out her window.

…And wouldn't you know it, just as soon as she started to nod off, a light caught her attention.  What really snagged her eye wasn't just the light, but the direction it came from.  It came from above and was heading on down – straight on down to her backyard.

Curiously, she watched the light split into two, then four lights.  They came closer.  She saw the underside of some sort of plane… or car… or **_something_** with four lights on its underside fall gracelessly towards her backyard.  It slid to the left, then listed to the right, dropped its nose (or front cab – who knew), then lifted it back up.  

But it came down slowly, not like it was going to crash.  

CRASH!!

Scratch that.  Make it: not like it was going to crash _hard.  Apparently it just sort of dropped the last few feet and slid forward a bit to make things interesting._

It did crash… in a manner of speaking.  It had ten wheels on its RV-like body similar to a large truck with four sets of two-wheels in the rear and two wheels in the front.  The front wheels appeared to go flat on impact and the truck or plane (or whatever) dipped forward as it slid near the neighbor's fence.  But it also had what looked like stabilizing fins on the roof of the truck (or plane or whatever).  It was almost as if someone had watched _Damnation Alley several times too many and tried to create a replica of their RV, only to stop halfway through and make it capable of flying instead.  Only forgetting to install wings.  Then deciding on patching things over with huge spoilers on the rear of the roof like it would make any difference._

Unlike most RV's, it wasn't reduced to displaying racing strips, decals of locations been to, or have an awning attached to the side.  Instead it was only one color – green.  The windows were clear and she saw light coming from the interior of the vehicle.  The yard was a mess, there was no way around that.  She just hoped her dad didn't have a coronary over it.

A door opened midway down the body of the craft.  It was like one of those RV doors that once opened had an auto ramp extend outwards.  She saw a figure in black pants, black jacket and what appeared to be a black motorcycle helmet stumble out of the oblong RV (or truck, or plane, or whatever).  It appeared that his (she could tell that it was a guy) right arm dangled uselessly as he dragged the rest of his body across the lawn.  His left leg also dragged behind him as he made his way to the back door.

Cautiously, she went downstairs, grabbing one of her dad's golf clubs as she made her way to the kitchen.  The door rattled.  Good, she thought.  Dad locked the door.

Her heart turned cold, intensifying the fear she felt in the pit of her stomach as she heard a key slide in to the lock.

The lock clicked to a release and the door opened.  

The guy stumbled in.  Or rather dragged himself in.

She stayed in the shadows as he made his way to the counter.  He took off his helmet and she saw some blood running down the side of his head.  His short, black hair was plastered to the side of his head from a massive amount of sweat and his eyes looked a little glassy.  Drugs? she thought.  No.  More likely it was pain.  

He dropped the helmet to the counter but it fell to the floor anyway.  The guy ignored it as he shuffled over to a drawer, opened it and pulled out a large knife.

Oh god, she thought.  He's going to snuff me right here and now!  She gulped.  Then gripped the golf club harder.

He put the knife down on the counter and concentrated on pulling out a large spoon.  He then put the knife back in the drawer and closed it.

She looked at the spoon in his hand.  A spoon?!  How the _hell do you kill someone with a spoon?  She'd have to ask her Aunt Amy that.  If anyone knew, it would be her._

Providing she lived through this nice little nightmare.

He made his way to the refrigerator and opened it.  She watched as he quickly pulled out some of Jake's infamous Kitchen Sink Stew. He snapped the Tupperware lid off the container and began eating, not bothering to chew which was probably just as well as the taste kind of overwhelmed your senses if you didn't eat it fast enough.  But still, voluntarily eating Dad's stew?

An alien.  No – no – no!  Not an alien!  That Artie goofball she once met was rubbing off on her in a bad way.

He dragged his body to the table, pulled out a chair and dropped in it.  "Gaahhhh," he gaahhhhed between clenched teeth, shifting his useless right arm onto his lap.  He put the stew in front of him again and began wolfing it down.

Definitely an alien, she rethought as she saw him stuffing the stew into his face.  Absolutely no other explanation for it – but what the hell would an alien, especially one in obvious pain, want with Dad's stew?

She watched him some more.  His hair was short, almost military style but not a buzzcut.  He had thick black eyebrows beneath a fountain of sweat and blood.  He unzipped his jacket and she saw more blood coating his shirt, near the neck.  It was probably the runoff from his head wound, she thought.  His nose appeared proportionate to his five foot nine inch frame and the rest of his face looked like he kept in shape instead of overdosing on Oreo's.

She suddenly sneezed from an overabundance of chemicals in the air released when he had opened the Tupperware container.

I'm dead, she thought, her eyes going to where the intruder sat.

The intruder looked over at her from his sitting position.  He could see her, but not the golf club that she'd hidden behind her back a few moments earlier.

She took an involuntary gasp of breath.

"Hey, Daria.  Sorry about the blood on the floor.  I'll clean it up as soon as I can."  And with that he ate some more of the stew.

He knew her.  How?  "Um, hey," she responded, not moving.

"I know I'm a mess, but you don't have to stand in the shadows so much.  Sssssssss," he winced, shifting his leg a little.

"You don't look so good," Daria volunteered the obvious.

He sighed.  "I've felt better, that's for sure.  Can you get me some water to push this down?  You can only eat Jake's specialty so long before your tongue swells up."

He did have a point, she thought.  She put the putter down and walked into the kitchen.  She didn't think he COULD hurt her unless you counted bleeding all over her clothes as hurtful.  Quinn probably would.

"So how's college life these days?" he asked.

Huh?  College?

"I know I should've written last semester but I met this really cute girl on the bike path.  Heh-heh, I didn't really so much meet her as ran into her.  She cut me off and I veered out of the way and went into the ditch.  Turns out I didn't veer enough and I caught the boot heel of her skates and she went down.  We got to talking while I fished my bike out and I kind of lost track of time for the next few months.  You know how it goes sometimes…"

No, she didn't know. Daria stayed quiet while getting a glass of water and putting it on the table. 

"But we broke up.  How about you?  Did that guy you met in Chemistry work out?  You said he had a good sense of humor and coming from you, that's saying something."

"…Uhhhmmmm…"

"Sure, hide the fact that he's a lecherous drunk with a penchant for riding his Harley up and down the dorm's stairways."  He paused a moment.  "That's a joke, Daria.  Jeez, I said I was sorry about not writing."

"Oh.  Ha, ha."  Who did this nutcase think he was talking to?  Head injury.  No doubt about it now.  No, he wasn't a threat, or at least a high threat any longer.  He was someone who needed help.  

"Sssssssss" he winced in pain again as he reached for the glass of water.  

Instinctively, Daria moved to the table again and pushed the glass closer for him to grab.  Damn conscience!  He put his smudged hand around it and gulped it down greedily.

"Thanks," he said, putting the empty glass down and going back to the stew.  "Y'know, I can't believe I crashed in your yard again.  I mean, here I was phasics'd into D-83 riding a time line up when I caught sight of a TDDR.  I wanted to watch her line a bit and Paul advised me not to do it.  But did I listen to him?  After all, who knew the inner workings of the shuttle-buggy better – him or me?"

Daria didn't answer.  What the hell was he talking about?

He sighed.  "I should'a listened to him.  Paul knew what would happen when jumping from one phasics'd time line to another while in mid stream instead of resetting the variables and sure enough, wham-o!"  He sighed again, chomping down the stew and losing a little of the glaze in his eyes.  "A console exploded near me just like they do on _Star Trek. Only on TV they show burns and such but they don't do anything to let you know about the concussive force behind that kind of explosion and what it can do to bones.  I tell you, they __really hurt.  Hence, the arm.  I'd wave, but it's kind of broken.  As for the leg, well, that was just a bad landing on top of everything else."_

Daria asked, "Where's Paul?"

He said, "Still on the shuttle-buggy repairing the damage.  I may have caused this mess, but his landing skills need some perfecting.  Heh-heh."  He winced in pain again.  "Damn, it hurts when I laugh.  Okay, I'll try not to laugh."

He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a five-inch tube of yellow goo.  Using his teeth to hold the cap, he unscrewed it with his one hand and spit the topper to the floor, then drank the contents.  "Gaaahhh, this stuff tastes like crap," he grimaced once the goo was on its way to his stomach.

He then reached around to his jacket collar and pulled out a small headset.  He rolled a switch to max volume, put it down on the table and said, "Paul?  You there?"

Daria could hear a faint voice from the foamed receiver.  A voice replied, "I'm here.  How you doing?"

"I'm hurting but all things considered, glad to be alive.  How's the buggy?"

"Repairs almost complete.  Computer system reloaded.  I just need some more time to reglaze the skin and install you a new chair since the last one is singed pretty bad."

"Get the glazers going, hold the chair and come on over to the kitchen with the G-U's."

The concerned voice asked, "You get your system adjusted for them yet?"

"Affirmative.  I knew Jake's stew would be the answer.  And bring me a new shirt and coat.  Mine are trashed."

Paul replied, "Got it.  Give me a few and I'll be over.  Out."

He rolled the switch back down and looked at Daria.  "That was Paul."

"Uhm, I kind of figured that," she replied, looking at him more critically.  There was something odd about him now.  His eyes were no longer glassy.  His gaze was almost piercing.  Of course it was easy to look intimidating when your face was covered in blood.

"Daria?"

"Umm, yeah?"

"Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Umm, okay."

He paused, pondering the best way to ask it.  Then, "What's my name?"

Daria replied, "Umm, don't you know?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.  I'd like to hear you say it."

That didn't sound good.  Where did she put that putter again?  "Umm, Roger?"

He sighed loudly.  Daria winced knowing that what she had said had probably been the wrong thing.  

In a soft voice, he said, "I'm _very sorry about all this, Daria.  You're not my sister like I thought you were.  I should've realized sooner but I don't think all the synapses in my brain were working even at fifty percent.  Here…"  He slid his bag across the table.  She looked at it, but didn't make to touch it._

"Take out the pouch at the bottom of the bag.  In it is a small flasher gun."

"A gun that strips?" she asked, resorting to sarcasm – familiar territory.

He grinned at the joke.  "Heh, you'd like that, eh?  No.  It's an energy gun that emits a flash of boosted alphas that cause intense pain in the recipient, bringing incapacitation for about 5 minutes."

Daria looked at him with open astonishment.  "Why're you giving this to me?" she asked, rummaging through the bag.

"Because you need a sense of power in this strange situation I've put you into.  Right now I've got the upper hand as I've basically broken into your home and you probably consider me a crazed lunatic capable of doing just about anything.  I'd like to balance this out by giving you a weapon you can use on me at any time.  That way you'll be in control, maybe less fearful, and hopefully help me out since I'm still in a lot of pain."

Daria pulled out a funky looking handgun with a mirror on the end of it instead of a gun barrel.

"I really don't like guns.  Besides, I doubt this one even works," she said, disbelief on her face.

He responded, "I know you don't.  But most guns are lethal in nature.  This one just causes a lot of pain."

"I still don't know…"

"Just picture Quinn's face over mine if I get out of hand."

"Can do."  Her eyes squinted, taking in an "altered" form.

"Jeez, you don't have to respond so quickly."

She looked at him critically and asked, "Does this thing actually work?"

"Yes it does.  And please don't point it towards me right now.  Any other questions?"

Daria, now thinking clearer than before, asked, "How do you know me?"

"Uhm," he started, "it's kind of complicated."

She was unfazed by this.  "This coming from the person who stumbled out of a flying bus."  She pointed with the flasher.  "Your story.  And keep it simple."

He gulped.  "Can do.  Okay, in a round-about sense, I'm your brother."

"Funny.  I don't remember you at the Barksdale family reunions.  I also don't remember seeing you on the Christmas card photo last year."

He smiled at her sarcasm, something that took her a little back.  Usually, very few people got the gist of what she said under the words. 

He replied, "I'm not biologically related to you.  Rather, you adopted me – that is, my Daria adopted me during our senior year in high school."

"I'm still in high school.  I'm not a senior yet."

"Interesting twist of events, isn't it?  Yet you still adopted me a couple years ago."

Sarcastically, she replied, "Sure I did.  And the Tooth Fairy really raided my bank to pay for Quinn's latest dress."

"See?  I said it was complicated.  Uh, I'll try to straighten this out.  I'm your adopted brother from a parallel timeline."

"Uh-huh."

"I landed here accidentally.  Otherwise you wouldn't see all the damage outside or me in front of you eating Jake's stew."

"Uh-huh."

"You don't believe me."

"_Uh-huh_."

"Then ask me something only you would know.  Or _think you would know."_

Daria's eyes took on a competitive look.  There was NO WAY she was going to let this guy one-up her!  Her mother, as well as Ms. Barch, had taught her that much at least.  "Okay, then how did we meet?"

He replied immediately.  "In high school.  I asked you to review a story for me."

"First hole in our story.  I wouldn't do that…"

"…unless you were paid.  I know.  You charged me for review and rewrites."

He had a point.  "Did I come out ahead on it?"

"I think we both came out ahead on it," he said.

"Why would I have associated with you?"

His eyes narrowed as he said, "Your question's too vague.  Clarify please."

Daria thought on this for a moment and responded, "You seem like an outgoing kind of person, blood notwithstanding, but we are not similar.  I am not outgoing by nature.  Therefore it seems unlikely that we would associate.  I might do an assignment for you, especially if you're paying, but I don't see us being… buds."

"We adopted each other due to mutual respect.  You live in a house with parents who don't really seem to care what you do.  You have one sibling who is embarrassed by your very existence.  My parents abandoned me.  I remember my mother and father until about age seven.  They enjoyed their drugs more than they enjoyed taking care of me.  Eventually they dropped me off with an uncle.  We were okay until I hit 15 which is when he died from cancer.  You and I began to know each other when I turned 17, first professionally with the rewrites and then with friendship.  We had a similar history which is why we became the siblings we wanted vs. what we were left with – namely nothing."

Daria sat and took this in.  He had a point.  Try as she might to convince herself otherwise, she might have associated with someone like that.  But, dammit, something just didn't add up!  Something was missing!  "Were you a jock in high school?"

He concentrated on an answer.  Then, "Specify parameters."

"Did you ever letter?"

"I wrote a letter.  Does that count?"

"No.  Did  you ever letter in sports?"

"No.  I did not letter in sports."

"Did you play sports?"

"Yes.  I enjoyed one activity and became very good at it."

Now she had him.  "A-hah!  I would not knowingly associate with a jock."

"Sure you would.  What about Mack?"

"Don't confuse the issue here.  Jodie's boyfriend is not on trial."

"Okay, then.  The sport I enjoyed was fencing."

Unmoved, Daria replied, "A sport is a sport.  You were still a jock.  Therefore, no association."

"On the contrary.  Fencing was once considered the sport of gentlemen.  I personally consider it the sport of legalized stabbing of other people with a piece of metal capable of drawing blood."

Daria considered this.  "Curse you and your insidious logic."  She shook her fist in mock anger.

He smirked at her un-hostile outburst.  She returned it.

"Do you believe me now?" he asked.

She answered truthfully.  "I believe you've been watching me and've done your homework on my background.  You're still a stalker in my eyes."

He grinned.  "Ahhh, but a stalker who's bleeding all over your kitchen.  How many other people in high school can say the same?"

Maybe he was saying the truth, but she had her doubts, especially after he cleaned the last of the stew from the bowl and downed it with gusto.  "Listen, do you want me to call an ambulance?  You really don't look very good."

"No need to bother the local quacks here.  Paul should be here any moment with medical equipment and I doubt your world can do even half as good as the stuff I've swiped from other realities."

A knock came at the back door.

"Speak of the devil.  Can you get that?  It'll be Paul with the equipment."

She got up.  "Sure.  Whatever.  I'm sure this dream will end sometime."

He looked at her.  "Dream?"

She returned his look of confusion with that of logic.  "A pain gun?  Get real.  This is all a hallucination brought on by migraine headaches."

The someone knocked again.

"What if it's not a dream?  What if I'm real?"

"Then at least this is better than what I'm used to.  And if you or your fiend is a crazed lunatic out to kill me, oh well.  I've had worse days."

He was going to say something else but she turned and opened the door…

…and saw Paul.  He didn't so much stand at the door as floated there.  He was about one meter high and equipped with four multi-clawed arms on his one-half meter diameter cylindrical body and two huge bug-like red-glass sensor arrays on his "head" which looked more like eyes (this cool effect being why he designed and built it in the first place).  He also had a square grill near where his mouth would be.  

True to her emotionless conditioning, Daria's mouth never opened in shock.  But the rest of her continued to stare like Paul was something she had never seen before.

Not that she had.

"Pardon me," he said.  "Can I come inside?"

Daria still stared at Paul, her mouth starting to open.

"Ahem.  Heavy equipment coming through," he said.  What was with her, he digitally thought.  Ah.  Moron projection: 96%.  That explained it.  "Hey, toots, you make a better door than a window you know.  Make way, already.  Jeez, you asleep on your feet or something?"

Daria woodenly stepped aside, in the process regaining control of her mouth which had nearly opened from the initial shock of seeing a floating robot.  Maybe this guy, for all the blood he was leaving on the floor, table and spoon, was on the level.  Maybe he was somehow related to her.

"Where do you want it?" Paul asked, floating over to the table.

"On the table, please.  Can you get units 2 and 3 ready?"

Paul dropped the bags of equipment on the table.  "Sure.  Not a problem."  Paul began assembling some equipment.

"Daria?  Can you help me with unit 1?  I could really use an extra hand – so to speak."

"Um, sure," she said, unsure what she could do. 

In the bag were six spheres about eight inches in diameter.  Paul showed Daria the activation switch on one of them while Paul activated the other two.  They chirped on electronically and with some instruction, Daria and Paul put the units in a triangular formation around a bleeding arm.  The electronic hum became louder as the last unit was put into position.  Daria let go and the unit floated in the air with the other two.

A moment later the three units began to spin in place.  They spun faster and faster until they became a blur.  Then they began to rotate around the arm.

They repeated the process with the remaining three units around the leg.

"Oh, god," he said.

Alarmed, Daria asked, "What?  You okay?"

"Oh, god," he returned.  "Bliss.  This feels so good."

"What does?"

"The lack of pain.  Oh, man, you don't realize how much you miss not having it until it's gone.  Bliss."  His head sunk to the table, a relieved smile on his face.

"What is all this…stuff?" she asked Paul who was intent on watching the spheres.

"Well, the spinners are gravity units or G-U's.  They serve a triple purpose.  One, they immobilize the area of the body so the nanos can work without disruption.  Two, the excess energy they stream out give a boost to the nano-probes themselves so they can work without stealing his body's chemicals and forcing him to eat more of Jake's Kitchen Sink Stew which he only ate to give the nanos a kick-start to begin with – I mean, who in their right mind would eat as much of that stuff as he did?  And third, it inhibits the neurons in the area it's working on, or basically it blocks any pain from being felt."

"What are nano-probes?"

Paul rotated his head and looked at Daria with his two bug eyes, letting them flash a little bit more red, then to a more blue-ish color.  She blanched at the effect – which was why he did it to begin with.  He replied, "They're little, itty, bitty robots set to repair tissue and bone in a body.  You probably saw him drink some yellow goo earlier."

She nodded.

"They were in there.  As soon as he gulped it down, they went to the stomach, caught an energy surge from all the acid reacting to the toxins in the stew and once we activated the G-U's which in turn activated a beacon for them to home in on, they split up, half to the arm and the other half to the leg.  You can already see it starting to work."

She looked and sure enough, the bleeding had stopped from his head wound as well as from the burns around his arm.

He lifted his head and looked at her, all traces of pain gone from his face.  "You should take a picture – it'll last longer."

She smirked at his levity.  Then, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What's your name?"

He looked shocked.  "I'm sorry, I've done it again.  I've taken your help for granted and didn't even introduce myself.  My name is Alex Jacobsen."  He extended his left hand to shake since his right hand was attached to a non-working right arm.

"My name is Daria Morgendorffer," she took his hand.

"I know.  And this is Paul," he said, indicating the floating mechanoid with the now-pulsating yellowish-red bug eyes.

Now unfazed, she asked him/it, "So what does Paul stand for?"

Paul replied, "Usually I stand for good manners."

"No, I mean is P-A-U-L short for something?"

"You mean like 'Puters Against Ubiquitous Losers?  Or 'Puters Against Uggo Lame-oids?"

"Umm, …sure?"

"No.  I just liked the name Paul and took it.  Hey, Alex, we have a real live one here…" he said, moving  his fingers around in a 'hey, this human chick's crazy' circle while he picked up some rags and began cleaning up the blood and smudge in the kitchen.  Moron projection: 97%.

Alex laughed.  Daria looked indignant but got over it once she realized her preconceived notions were showing.  She looked at Paul and said, "My apologies.  You have a very nice name."

"Thank you.  So do you.  Would you mind lifting your left foot?  You've stepped in something I really don't think you want tracked through the house."

She complied.  "Alex, who… no, make that what are you really?"

Alex looked at Paul who nudged him with one of his arms and said, "Tell her."

Alex looked back at Daria and said, "I'm an explorer."

"Of what?" she quickly asked, taking a seat across from him to watch his face for non-vocal communication.

"Alter…" Alex began, then slumped forward, his one arm still extended outwards as the G-U's kept spinning around it.

"Alex?" Daria asked in a concerned voice.

"Forget it, chickie," Paul stated.  "He's out for about another 5 or 10 minutes.  The nan's must've needed more juice than the G-U's were exporting."

Daria considered the floating robot for a moment and said, "How long have you known Alex, Paul?"

Paul stopped his cleaning and whirred over to Daria.  "Oh, a few years."

"Did he build you himself?"

"Build me?  Hah!  Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Well, I figured if he could build that flying RV in the backyard…"

"Build the buggy?  Hah!  Whatever gave you that idea?  No, wait, let me guess.  You figured that since he was an organic, a fleshie, he must be in charge.  Typical organic behavior."

"Um, well then if you built a flying RV capable of going through time…"

"Hah!  Whatever gave you that idea?  No, wait, let me guess.  You figured that since I'm a multi-reasoning AI with a personality shiftchip, that I must have built everything and recruited a lowly fleshie to be my eyes and ears.  Typical organic behavior."

"Um, Paul, as much as I'd like to stay here and listen to you rant and rave like my dad on everything I say, if you don't start making some sense pretty soon, I have a titanium plated golf club around the corner that I can and will start whacking you with until you do start making sense.  Comprende?"

Paul's eyes flashed from blue-ish to red, then pink, then yellow then white then green then silver with black twinges in it like eyebrows on top.  "For a fleshie, you're kind of single-minded.  I like that.  Okay, all kidding aside, I built the buggy.  I had been doing some extensive research into cold fusion compression as well as time travel.  Alex figured out the manipulation of the phasics fields, allowing entry into non-realities.  We met, decided to work together for mutual goals and spent some time finishing the buggy.  The buggy houses artifacts, scientific crap we've picked up from lines, and my main circuitry.  Does that answer all your questions?"

"Yes.  Except why an older me didn't go with Alex in the buggy.  It seems like something I would do."

"What're you talking about?"

"Alex said he's my adopted brother from the future."

"Huh?"

"You sure you've know Alex for a couple years?  I'm sure he would have introduced you to me, or an alternate me, wouldn't he?"

"Huh?"

"He wouldn't have introduced you to his parents over me, would he?" Daria asked, trying to get a bead on Alex's past.

"How could he do that?  His parents are dead."

"He said they abandoned him."

"No, they died." 

"…nate dimensions," Alex said, waking up.  "Did I just pass out?  Awww, man.  I hate it when that happens."

Daria ignored Paul and wanted more information from a fellow organic.  "Alex, you okay?"

"Getting there," he smiled.

"You were telling me you were an explorer of _what_," she prompted.

"Alternate realities.  I'm doing my doctorate thesis on it."

"You're kidding."

He responded with honesty.  "Not at all.  This sure as hell isn't a government project, and I don't get advertising dollars to phase around.  And I'm not going to let any stuffed shirt know what I'm doing because if I do, then bang! Here comes the government with its clandestine units wanting something or politicians wanting to regulate it for some funding rip-off or another.  No, this discovery is all mine while I work out some exper… well, while I work out the kinks of manipulating both time and space," he put in quickly.

"Alternate dimensions?  Are you kidding me?  Time travel _maybe_ I could accept.  But I'm drawing the line at alternate dimensions."

"Does Paul look like something you'd find on this world?  If it helps you any, you're not the first one to not believe me and you certainly won't be the last."

"It doesn't help," she replied candidly.  "He could be a construct from the future.  But I'll concede the point – _if you can explain how you do it."_

"Sure.  Basic Phasics 101.  For every action, there is an equal reaction.  For every decision, there is another outcome.  Space is filled with non-space and therefore you can slip through it to another reality where that other decision was made.  I researched that for a bit and found that by reflecting light at a 390 degree angle…

"Huh?  You mean a 360 degree…"

"Nope.  A 390 degree… are you _sure_ you want me to explain any more?"

She thought about it for a moment.  Rubbing her eyes, she responded, "No, not really.  You're making my head hurt enough already."

"Hey, Paul!  You owe me 50 bucks!"

"Double or nothing?"

"Sure," Alex grinned.

"What are you talking about?" Daria asked them critically.

"Paul and I have a running bet.  Every time I begin explaining basic Phasics 101 to someone, if they quit within the first 3 minutes, Paul pays me.  Otherwise, I pay him."

"Why?"

"Uhm, you know, I'm not sure.  Hey, Paul, why we doing this again?"

He replied while tipping up the refrigerator to get some dirt and grime that was under it.  "Clinical research on fleshie response to overwhelming data that they don't understand.  Besides, what am I going to do with 50 smackers?  It's not like I need to go shopping for anything."

"You know, I'm starting to like you," Daria said to Paul.  

He stopped what he was doing and looked at her.  "Really?  You're not so bad yourself, for a fleshie.  You've got a sensible dose of cynicism and sarcasm running through your body."  Moron projection: 0%.

Daria grinned at this a bit and asked, "Where are you from, Paul?  Tell me about yourself."

"Oh, you know me.  I'm just the embodiment of superficiality that exists across all time and creation."

"Paul," Alex interjected, "that line still needs some work as does your delivery.  It's not funny.  Daria, Paul comes D-23 where there wasn't a dark age.  But at this point most human life is now gone.  It seems a nuclear war about 1,400 years ago rained down some nasty radiation that killed off most life.  It also caused a lot of EMP's which wiped out most computer activity.  Paul was the only remaining AI functioning that had the capacity to answer my radio hails when I arrived about three years ago.  I zoned in on his location and picked up his hardware and personality.  It was either that or leave him to go crazy."

"Like that hasn't already happened," both Paul and Daria said in unison.  Daria looked at Paul and could almost swear he was smiling at her.  The eyes pulsed again to a new color of silver and gold.

"True.  But it turns out Paul was an experimental AI used by that world's version of the D-O-D to track potential future psychological shifts in possible hotspots, including their own country.  He had access to all communications as well as was heavily shielded.  And since he was new, the D-O-D's counterparts in other countries hadn't zeroed in on his location with a nuke.  Hence, he survived while radiation vaped most of the population."

"You sure like to say 'hence' a lot, you know that?" I asked.

"I tell him that all the time," Paul supplied.

"Stuff a sock in it, both of you.  Anyway, most of the facility Paul was housed in was automated and had been kept in perfect repair by their nano-technology.  But apparently without human intervention, Paul got a little bored and began following up experiments left behind by the previous human population.  He had already branched into energy manipulation and tachyon distortions when I arrived.  And even if I hadn't shown up, Paul was planning on going mobile with the buggy.  But with my arrival, Paul could rezone back to his original programming of viewing the human psyche…"

"…and find out what makes you fleshies all so nuts.  Jeez, Alex, you have to bleed everywhere in this kitchen?" Paul asked sarcastically while wiping up the smears on the refrigerator handle.

Alex leaned close to Daria and said, "Just a quick word of advice.  Paul really does mean well and he's the closest friend I've got.  But if you want to get on his best side, use good manners.  Bad manners set him off.  He's kind of quirky that way."

"I'll keep that in mind," Daria replied. Shifting the subject, she asked, "Alex, what's a TDDR?"

"Why?" he responded, eyes narrowing.

"Excuse me?  Why what?" she replied in confusion.

"Who told you about TDDR's?" he asked with a sharp tone in his voice.

"Uhm… you did.  While you were bleeding all over the chair."

The tension building in his body seemed to melt a bit.  "Sorry about that.  I've had too much experience with them lately and I'm sick of it.  TDDR's are what I call Temporal Dudley Do-Rights.  They're a major pain in the ass.  They've already evicted us from 10 dimensions just because we were conducting some experiments."

"How can anyone evict you from a timeline?" Daria asked.

Paul answered, "They're from a thousand years in the future.  Their time-travel technology is more advanced than mine.  Alex and I can only go past or forward 50 years from current phasics state before we start to lose cohesion at the molecular level.  The TDDR's don't have this problem but as far as we can tell, they cannot go sideways through dimensions."

"You still haven't explained how they evict you," Daria pointed out.

"In the dimensions we've been kicked out of, a TDDR showed up, weapon drawn, and pained us into submission.  They took us up a thousand years or so and kept us in a null cell while some freakin' kangaroo court said we'd been found guilty of continuity breech.  Further, they said since we weren't part of their natural dimension, they were evicting us and if we came back they'd snatch us uptime again, only to release us over and over and over again.  That didn't sound too bad until those futuristic dorks powered down the null cell and the temporal-bounce kicked in full force."

"Temporal-bounce?"

Alex scowled.  "Paul and I were fused back a thousand years without benefit of technology.  It wasn't a pleasant experience."

Paul floated over to Daria.  "I'll say.  I don't even have pain receptors but I can tell you what pain feels like now."

"They evicted you because of a continuity breech.  What's that?"  
  


"Uhm… they weren't specific on that," Alex said.

"I thought it was related to your experiments," Paul said, polishing the door handle.

"Thanks, Paul.  I'm sure I wouldn't have remembered," Alex sarcasmed.

"What were your experiments?" Daria asked, trying to avoid another round of bantering.

"We found some dimensions where Helen and Jake didn't get married.  They dated for a while but then went their own way.  I tried a couple things to make sure they stayed together."

Paul added, "Then we found a couple other D's where they never even met.  Fleshie-boy here tried some other things to get them together."

Daria pondered over what Alex said.  "How do  you know my parents never got together in those dimensions?"

"We scanned their timelines," he replied, suddenly focussing his attention to a slowing G-U.

"So if I understand this, you went into a dimension, searched for my folks, then read their future, _then_ experimented with their past.  Correct?"

"Yes," Paul said helpfully.

"So in essence you're trying to change history," she further clarified.

"Of course," Alex said absently, paying more attention to the G-U which he knocked with a knuckle.  "After all, what's the point of having a vehicle that can travel through both time and phasics unless you can change history?"

"Don't you think it's a little wrong to go and change someone's history?" Daria suggested.

"That's what the TDDR's said and you know what, they were _wrong_ as well!" Alex snapped angrily, then went back to the G-U.

A minute went by in silence.  Daria watched Alex work, the grim expression he had slowly disappearing.  She was no longer afraid of him or Paul.  She felt something else instead.

"Sorry about that, Daria," he apologized a few minutes later.  "It's just that those jerks have caused so much temporal stress on my body that I can't run any further experiments for fear of running into them.  After the 10th time through the temporal-bounce, I just couldn't take another round."

"Are your experiments that important to you?" Daria asked concerned.

He looked at her and gave what she felt was the first true answer all evening.  "Yes," he said.  "They are.  There's nothing more I want to see get done."

"For your doctorate?"

His expression looked pained.  "No.  I could care less about the degree.  This is more important."

He went back to work on the malfunctioning G-U, giving it another whack that sure enough got it spinning again.  It joined the other two units and spun around his leg again.  "So where is everybody?" he asked Daria.

Daria answered crisply.  "They went out for a late dinner.  Dad got a new client today and Quinn couldn't wait to knock him up for some spending money."

Sarcastically, Paul said, "As if that was something new…"

"I see you've met Quinn before, Paul."

Paul stopped wiping up a bloodstain and said, "Plenty of them.  Virtually identical to the core.  Gimme, gimme, gimme.  I tell you what I'd like to _gimme her…"_

"Paul!" Alex barked.  "Don't say it.  I told you it wasn't her fault.  I should've kept my mouth shut."

Daria was confused.  "What wasn't who's fault?"

"Another Quinn a few realities over.  She hocked me in order to get some sandals."

"Paul…" Alex warned.

"No, Alex, let him go on.  I'd love to hear it, please."

"Well, since you asked so nicely…" Daria could almost hear the smile in his voice.  He flew over to her.  "In that reality floating robots weren't a big deal and I wasn't floating at the time.  We stopped there to grab some basic gravity technology so I could construct a new mobile shell since my treads had gotten trashed a few days before.  Immobile was the new word for the day for me.  So we stop at the Morgendorffer residence, make a quick survey to see if we exist in this line which we didn't – no surprise there – and then set to doing some odd jobs around the place at some cheap prices that really got Helen into a 'I put one over on that sucker mood."

Daria knew what he was talking about.  "Ahh.  The victory mood.  She becomes…"

"…much more agreeable after that.  Yeah.  I know.  Been there, done that.  Anyway, Alex gets to painting the interior of the house while I get to downloading technical files through the internet library link when Quinn walks in on us.  She wants to know why Alex didn't have a better unit for a helper.  Alex says he couldn't afford one and she gets this glint in her eye.  Next thing you know she swipes me, puts in a ringer for me that could have FOOLED ANYONE…"

Sheepishly, Alex quickly inserted, "How many times do I have to say it looked just like you?"

Paul waved all four of his arms.  "Please!  It still had MADE BY RONDA'S WRONGCO on the label attached to the remote control antenna!"

To Daria, "He's never going to let me forget that, you know."

Paul continued.  "So next thing I know she hocks me at a local pawn shop and bleeding-boy here doesn't come for me until that evening."

Daria was aghast.  "I can't believe she did something that shallow.  I mean Quinn wouldn't do something like that here…"

"Well, this one did," Paul said firmly.

"But to outright steal?"

Alex answered, "She used Paul's pawn money to buy some sandals and dress, thinking I would be impressed enough to take her out to Chez Petrols…"

"Chez Pierre's…" Daria supplied.

Alex smiled.  "…not here.  Anyway, once I noticed Paul was gone and that Quinn had a new dress and shoes, I needed to find out what she'd done with him so I took her for some fru-fru food."

"See?  This miserable fleshie took her out on a date while I laid in a crappy recycle bin waiting for the morning light when the store manager would do the most crushing thing of all – mark me down to closeout price!"

"Paul, I took her out to get the info where she'd taken you so I could come rescue you."

"Some rescue!  It was nearly midnight when you came."

"No sense in letting some good fru-fru food go to waste."

Paul's eyes took on a black tint.  "I hope you choked on it."

"Not at all.  But thanks for asking."

Daria was still trying to make sense of it all.  True, her sister was shallow and this wasn't _her_ sister – but it could have been.  "But why did she take Paul to begin with?  Just to get you to take her out?"

"Kind of.  Over dinner she explained that she wanted me to take her out in order to take my mind off my money problems and having to use substandard computer products…"

"SUBSTANDARD??!!!!!"

"To that Quinn, Paul was just another overgrown tinkertoy that could barely do simple things like bring me a paint brush.  She didn't know he was an AI."

"Well, I certainly don't think of Paul as a tinkertoy," Daria said.

"Why, thank you," Paul said pleasantly.

"Patronizing and arrogant at times, sure.  But never a tinkertoy."

"Awww, you're just saying that to get on my good side."

"So what happened on  your "date" with Quinn?"  Daria was hooked.

"Not much," Alex replied.  "She let it slip what she'd done with Paul, I ordered the most expensive thing I could find on the menu, we enjoyed some food, drinks and dessert, and near the end of the meal, I excused myself to the men's room and slipped out, stiffing her with the bill."

"Heh-heh," Daria chuckled.

"Was that a laugh?"

 "No," she replied dishonestly.

Paul then asked, "So why didn't you go out to dinner with everyone, Daria?  Could you move your foot, please?  You're standing in something I don't think you want to be standing in."

Daria looked at Paul and arched an eyebrow.  

"Oh, right," Alex answered.  "The Quinn factor.  Say no more."

A slight smirk formed on Daria's tight lips.  "Maybe you're my adopted brother after all."

They both smirked and looked at one another.

"So why aren't you out with Lane then?" Alex asked.

"Who's he?"

"Not a he, a she.  Your best friend."

"Doesn't help."

"Your partner in crime," he suggested.

" Still drawing a blank."

"Paul, could you…" Alex began.

"Way ahead of you, broken-bone boy."  Paul stopped his cleaning (he was nearly done anyway) and zipped out of the kitchen towards the buggy.

"What's he going to do?" Daria inquired.

"Oh, check on your line and see what happened with you meeting Lane.  This could take a few hours so don't get worked up for some instant answers."

BRRZZZZZZZ, brrzzzzzzzed a laundry-buzzer sounding buzzer.  The three G-U's around Alex's arm quit spinning and came to a stop.  Alex reached up and switched off the first unit, putting it down on the table.  He did the same for the next two units as well.

Cautiously, Alex began to move his right arm around and around.  "Ow, ow, ow, ow," he muttered as he flexed and stretched.

"You okay?" Daria asked.

"Yeah.  It's just that with the G-U's off, the neurons are receiving proper input and leftover pain signals are coming in.  It'll be sore for the next day or so anyway."

With the release of the G-U's, the remaining singed material around his arm fell to the ground.  Daria could see bare, healthy flesh on the arm now that the blood and grime were gone.

"Lookin' good this time," he said with a smile, removing his coat and shirt and putting on the replacements that Paul had brought.

"This time?" Daria inquired.

"Yeah, I've had some problems with the nano's in the past where they tended to use part of the clothing material as a building block with my arm.  Imagine how much of a pain it was to get my shirt off after that."  He laughed a bit and shook his head.  "But I think I've got the program down this time.  No leftover cotton in my bicep.  That's always good."

The second buzzer went off.  He removed the G-U's from around his leg and began doing similar exercises.  He seemed well enough to travel which got Daria to thinking.  "Alex?"

"Hmmm?"

"I take it you're almost ready to go?"

"In a few minutes, yeah.  I just want to make sure I've cleaned up around here.  Sorry about Jake's stew, though.  I can't replace that much as I'd want to.  Uh-oh…"

He inhaled sharply.

"BRRAACCCCCKKKK," he exhaled loudly.  As Ms. Barch would say – Typical MALE!!

Daria waved the yellow air around her away, propping open the door in the process of airing out the kitchen.

"Oh, excuse me.  That was certainly uncalled for," he grinned.

Daria took it in stride.  "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Ask away."

"When you leave, would you mind taking me with you?"

Alex stopped exercising the kinks out of his rebuilt muscles and skin.  He looked seriously at Daria.  "You mind if I ask why?"

"You have to ask?" she returned sharply.

Alex just stared at her, waiting for an answer.

Daria sighed.  "Look around here.  What do you see?  You asked me why I wasn't hanging around with Lane, my supposed friend.  Does it look like I have any friends to you?"

Alex didn't need to look around.  "No.  I guess not."

She continued.  "I guess the Daria who adopted you has more friends than I'll ever have.  I've been in this stinking town for a year and I'm as alone here as I was back in Highland.  About the only thing anyone even came to talk to me about that wasn't about schoolwork was when Tommy Sherman managed to remove himself from the gene pool.  Then it was, 'Hey, I'm feeling upset so why don't I just ask the Misery Chick why I'm feeling so down.  Maybe she can get this bad feeling to leave and I'll be happy again.  I'm sure she knows all about misery anyway.'"  

Daria was getting good and angry.  A side rarely seen.

"So I listened to one person after another and offered what insights I could and ways they could deal with their pain.  But when I went to someone with how I was feeling I was pushed away just like all the other times!"

"Who?"

She stopped.  "What?"

"Who did you go to?"

"Does it matter?"

Alex thought on it for a moment.  "It was Helen, wasn't it?"

Daria turned her head to keep Alex from seeing any emotion creep through the corner of her eye.  She blinked it back rapidly as she made her way to a cupboard and got herself a glass and then filled it from the faucet.  She wasn't about to answer his question at all.  Not now.  Not ever.

The silence was all the answer Alex needed.  If he'd been wrong she would have commented one way or the other.  Dammit!  It seemed Helen always had a soft spot – for her cell phone.  People didn't change much from reality to reality and Helen had been like this more than Alex cared.  At least he had lucked out.  But this Daria hadn't.

"Daria?"

She looked at him, her eyes narrowed in deep thought.  He had always liked that view of her – like she was positioning herself on a chessboard moving in for mate in three moves or less.  "Hmm?" she replied as Paul returned quietly to watch the two of them talk.

"I've felt down myself from time to time.  That's life; it happens.  But when it does happen, I tend to go to one of my favorite places until it's leeched out of me.  Or until I can function civilly with company again.  Either way, I need some me time.  Tell you what.  I'd like to take you to one of those locations.  You might enjoy it.  Once you're feeling better, if you still want to evac this reality, I'll take you with me."

"Go for a ride on your space buggy shuttle I take it?"

"Shuttle-buggy," he corrected.  "Only…"

"What?"

"Well, it's kind of…" he started and stopped.  Then, "It's a…" he stopped again.  Shrugging his shoulders, he said, "There's no easy way to put it.  Only family can come aboard."

"Who came up with that stupid rule?  You or Paul?"

"Neither.  It was the shuttle's idea."

"Huh?  You lost me."

"Uhm, you need a little more history on Paul.  He was alone for a _very_ long time.  When he finally got around to creating the shuttle, he used whatever materials he had available – hard metals, light metals, plastics… and animals.  That shuttle is partly alive."

Daria asked, "What part of it is alive?"  

Alex responded, "The part that eats.  In order to gain access myself, I had to give it a DNA sample so it would recognize my scent and associate it as a family member from now on."

"That doesn't sound so bad…"

"The sample consisted of two pints of blood and my left thumb.  Hence Paul and my first attempt to modify nano's for medical procedures."

"Oh," Daria said, paling a bit at having something bite off her appendage.  "How about adoption then?  I could always adopt you since I've already done that before – somewhere or another.  That way we'd be family."

"Possible.  You could adopt me in a foster-brother sort of way … or… I could adopt you!"

"Isn't that one in the same?"

"No, not really.  It's all a matter of perspective.  That shuttle's got a mean perspective so maybe we could fool it that way."

"Sheesh.  You two fleshies should compromise and adopt one another.  That way you've covered both sides," Paul suggested critically.

Alex looked at Daria.  "Sounds good.  You game?"

"Sure," she returned a little hesitant.

"You sure you know what you're getting yourself into?" Alex asked seriously.

Uncertain, she replied, "What do you mean?"

"As your brother I will have certain responsibilities to give you noogies when you're getting out of hand, or whenever I'm simply bored."

She understood.  "Ah.  Well, keep in mind that I can kick the crap out of you with these boots should impending noogies come my way."

Alex smiled at that.  "Spoken like a true family member."

She smirked in response.  "Adoption then?"  She extended her hand.

"Adoption.  C'mere and give your brother a hug."

"Lawsuit," she said quickly, avoiding physical contact.

"Not this time!"  Alex grabbed her into a hug and after a moment she reciprocated.

"Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"Your clothes stink of burned wiring."

"Sorry about that."

A few minutes later the three of them left the kitchen in more or less the same shape before Alex stumbled into it earlier that evening.  Paul flew into the open door of the shuttle while Alex and Daria walked towards it.  Five feet from the door a foot-long triangular shape unmerged with the shuttle's body and on a flex-line positioned itself in front of the two humans.  The triangular shape pulsated colors similar to Paul's eyes and Daria could sense something else was now watching her.  

"No sudden moves, Daria," Alex warned.  "That's the sniffer."

The shape shot a blue light towards Alex and a moment later Daria heard a voice say, "Clear to enter, Alex."

The sniffer then moved towards Daria and shot a blue light over her form.  Alex could tell she was nervous.

Alex began, "Shuttle, allow access to…"  

Alex was interrupted by the shuttle's voice saying, "She's cool.  DNA on file.  Clear to enter, Daria."  The sniffer retreated and re-attached itself to the shuttle, showing no sign of a seam.  The voice then said, "But keep one thing in mind – I'm getting hungry."

*********

On board the shuttle-buggy, which still looked an awful lot like an RV on steroids, Daria sat in the co-pilot chair (a.k.a. – the passenger chair) next to a floating Paul and an intense Alex as they called off system power settings and other technical status listings.  She had outfitted herself (under Paul's instructions) similar to Alex's – a nylon-feeling opaque bodysuit under her regular clothes of blue jeans, black shirt, boots and a black leather jacket like the pilot's.  She also had a pair of black leather gloves and was wearing a helmet.  The jacket and helmet were to help in the event of a crash but she wasn't so sure, not after seeing what happened to Alex – but she wasn't in a position to argue.  Well, actually she was and she would have but neither of them were listening so what was the point.

The interior of the buggy really was like an RV, that is if an RV were decked out in computer equipment, power grids and rounded walls next to other flashing lights and a machine that went PING! every few minutes.  About the only normal looking area on the RV was the shower/bathroom which looked normal enough (but she hadn't opted to try it yet) as well as a few cupboards with dishes, cereal and a small fridge with near-Milk and frozen lasagna in it, and a microwave set in the dash.

"Skin glaze complete," Paul announced, one hand flipping a switch to deactivate the glazers and retract them into the hull.

"Bringing the gravs on-line," said Alex, lifting up on a lever which had the desired effect of raising the shuttle-buggy out of the small hole in the ground it had made on impact.

"We still have the ground to fix," Paul mentioned, looking at the roughly 5-meter wide, 4-meter deep hole through the window.

"Pat it, please.  I'll watch for containment leakage."

Paul reached over Daria and flipped a lever and rotated a handle.  A seam appeared on the front of the buggy and a large extension extended out towards the ground.  Daria thought it was similar to the backhoe but then she saw that instead of a claw at the end, there was a… for lack of a better description… a padded hand that also had the dexterity of a regular hand as it began scooping and pushing dirt back into the hole and once that was all done, it patted the ground down.  Finished, the hand retracted into the buggy and the opening closed seamlessly.  The hole wasn't perfect by any means but you had to look for it to notice it was there.

"Patting complete.  I'm ready."

Alex looked over at Daria.  "We're at a 106% of 390.  We're ready, Daria.  You still game to go?"

"Will it hurt?"

Alex grinned and hit the accelerator.  Daria had already strapped in with the shoulder harnesses as had Alex so was stuck to the seat.  Still, the acceleration shoved her back as they hit 3 G's within moments.  She had expected the cabin to be noisy with a roar of some kind, but other than the initial acceleration noise, the cabin was quiet.  She could tell they were moving fast as the glow of the Earth melted away to the blackness of deep space.

"Where are we going?" she asked, containing her alarm.

"Geosync orbit.  Then we hit the phasics-drive to D-32.  Paul, how much longer?"

"Four seconds… three… two… one.  Engines off.  Phasics on.  We're a go."

"Let's ride."  Alex shoved a CD in the dash player and then cranked two blue levers out, then around – and they were off!

The shuttle-buggy slipped from reality.

*********

"Paul, we ready for re-entry now?" Alex asked while fwipping a dial with his thumb and forefinger.

"We'll reacquire geosync in 8 more seconds.  Activating beacon.  Hold on…  Hold on… Now.  Ride the line."

"Riding.  Anticipate S-L-link in 3 minutes.  Daria, how are you feeling?" Alex asked looking over at her.

Daria looked a little pale.  She genuinely looked pale most of the time, but this time was a little different as she had a fear of heights and was now about 250 miles straight up from Earth – in an RV that was headed straight down.  The Earth became a little bit bigger, then bigger, then a lot bigger.  Her breathing intensified as the shuttle-buggy headed straight towards North America.

"Daria?" Alex asked again, showing concern in his voice.

"HUH?!!" she nearly yelled, her eyes wide behind the sun visor of the helmet, sweat falling down her face.

"Are you okay?" he asked cautiously.

She swallowed.  "Why are we going straight down?  What about re-entry?  Won't the heat kill us?  You do have heat shields on this buggy, don't you?"  
  


"_Heat_ shields?" Paul asked, his eyes flashing a cautious yellow.  "What the heck are _heat shields_?  Alex, you been holding out on me or something?"

Daria's eyes bulged a little at that.

"Daria," Alex began.  "Paul's kidding.  Don't worry and try to calm down.  We're not going to die.  We're not going to burn up.  We're in phasics-space."

"What's that?" she quickly asked, unable to take her eyes away from the growing shape of the United States of America rapidly coming towards them.  She wasn't aware that the RV had not gotten any warmer.  Somehow, to her, it just wasn't that important.

"Basically, we're in a non-corporeal state.  We don't really exist in the physical world."

"Sort of like politicians," she responded automatically, still unable to take her gaze away from the rapidly approaching ground.

"Close enough," Paul chimed in, his eyes flashing a purplish blue.

Alex continued.  "And since we're in phasics-space, normal rules of physics don't apply to us.  For instance, this buggy does have shields, but not the heat shields required for re-entry into an atmosphere from space.  But then we don't need them as we're not encountering any resistance other than from Paul's over inflated ego."

"Hey!"

Daria gulped again.  "Are we flying or driving in phasics-space?"

"Does it really matter?" Alex asked with a grin, stepping on the brakes and giving the RV a hard turn before they "hit" the ground.  

The buggy slowed to a cruising speed of roughly 100mph about 2 meters off the ground as Daria's breathing returned to a more normal state.  She took the time to focus on her surroundings.  She recognized the location immediately.

"You took me to downtown Lawndale as your favorite location?" she asked incredibly.

"Not quite.  This is Lawndale, but not _your_ Lawndale."

"Yeah, right," she said contemptuously.

"Then how do you explain that?" Paul asked, pointing towards the town sculpture.

She viewed it and her jaw stayed clenched shut only through an act of will.  It was a giant strawberry with an equally giant arrow through it, both on top of an equally giant pigeon who looked as if it had strawberry juice sliding down its feathers.  Daria sat back in the seat, unbuckling the seat restraints.

"Where are we going?" she asked eventually.

"We're almost there.  Just around the corner.  There.  See that house?" Alex said, pointing to a two-story home that looked similar to the others in the neighborhood.

"Yeah.  That's where we're going?"

Alex grinned again, slowing the RV down to a measly 5mph and then cranking the wheel again, heading up the sidewalk towards the house.  "You might say that."

Daria's breathing intensified again.  "We're going to crash!" she yelled.

They slid through the front of the house as if it wasn't there.  Actually, it was there – but they _weren't_ really there.

"Would I crash this buggy?" Alex asked jokingly to Daria.

She gave him **the look**.  

"Okay, wrong phrasing.  How about: would I crash this buggy with you in it?"

Daria removed her helmet and rubbed her eyes.  "Will you just tell me where we are?"

"Why don't you look out your window and you tell me," Alex prompted.

She looked up and this time her jaw did drop.

She saw herself setting the kitchen table.  

Only it wasn't her.  Not unless she'd suddenly gained 10 years and about 30 pounds.  

This other Daria looked closer to her mother than Daria did.  But that may have been mitigated by the three daughters sitting around the table chattering away, ages 2-6.  Daria watched the other Daria put plates down, then go into the kitchen and bring out dinner and put it on the table – chicken, vegetables, rolls – anything but lasagna.  She watched as this other Daria made up a plate for each child, cutting a piece of chicken when needed, and then began feeding the youngest in the highchair.  A few minutes later a balding man about this other Daria's age came in.  He wore clothes that said construction worker vs. desk-jockey.

"Wha… what's all this?" Daria asked quietly.

"Like I said, it's one of my favorite places I come to when I need to lose tension," Alex replied quietly.

"But that looks like…"

"You.  Yes, I know.  You're my sister in a reality, adopted or not, so when I get to a new location, I like to see if you're in it and if so, how you're doing.  In this one, I think you're doing great.  Most of the time you don't exist.  There are more Quinn's than Daria's."

"Why are we whispering?" Paul asked equally quiet.  Then, much louder, "After all, we can't be heard unless one of us yells really, really loud and even that can barely be heard since we would need to reverb this reality's molecules and we aren't in phase with them as yet."

"They can't hear us – and unless I suddenly turned stupid, they can't see us as we are out of phase with reality.  Phasics.  I get it.  Paul, if you put that dunce cap on me, I'll rip off one of your arms and beat you sensorless with it."

Paul dropped the dunce cap he was making and turned towards Alex.  "I like this one, Alex.  Can we keep her?"

"Daria, the seals next to his joints are most susceptible to a good, hard tug," Alex said, taking off his helmet.

Daria smirked as Paul's eyes flashed violet to green to red back to blue and purple.  She looked out the window at the family eating dinner, then her alternate getting up and picking up the dishes.  "Alex, why am I… I mean, why is that other Daria limping?"

"In this reality, this Daria has mild cerebral palsy and walks with a limp.  She also doesn't have much strength in her right hand but she can still punch out someone with her left.  _Here_, Quinn never got as much attention as she does in other dimensions and this Daria is much more well adjusted, although just as stubborn in her beliefs and desires to do everything on her own.  

"Like you, this other Daria never got invited to dances or parties not because she wasn't pretty enough, but due to the fact that she walked with a limp.  People tended to see the limp before they saw her.  That is until she met Sean Paddio in her senior year.  He was a transfer that year and one day she was bumped during classes and her books fell.  He stopped to help pick them up.  She was in her usual self-reliant demeanor…"

"Meaning she cussed him out," Paul added.

"Thank you, Paul.  She cussed him out and he smiled and asked if she'd like to go to the prom with him.  She refused but he asked her again and again over the next four days until she finally said yes.  She went and they became a couple.  He never once asked her about the limp.  Several months later she met his family and found out that he had a younger brother who also had CP, much more severe.  Sean didn't treat him any more differently than he did Daria.

"They remained in touch as she went to college.  He didn't go, instead preferring to go into the family construction business.  He'd still find the time to go and see her, bring her little presents like a picnic lunch or an oil change.  Eventually, they got married.  And in their lives they had three daughters – Amy, Janey and Bartholemew…"

"Bartholemew?!" she exclaimed.

"Heh, heh.  Sorry, just wanted to see if you were listening.  The youngest daughter is Claire, after Sean's mother."

"So what does this other me do for a career?"

Alex didn't reply.  Instead, he flicked a few switches and said.  "Now that we're here, why don't I show you why I like coming here.  Paul, you ready to timeline?"

Paul settled into a secured position on a counter.  "Ready.  Power systems normal.  No anomalies on the skin.  We're good to go."

"Daria, hold on," Alex said, flipping another switch.

"Oh, God…" she began, anticipating the worst.

"We're here," Alex broke in.

"…not again?  Okay, we're here _where_?"

Alex moved the silent shuttle-buggy through the house, backed up and went through the back wall so they were facing the living room.  Outside had suddenly turned dark and the other Daria and Sean were sitting next to each other on the couch watching TV.  

"Same place, same home.  Different time.  We've moved up by three hours, 20 minutes."

Daria looked at Alex starting with another "Don't give me that line of baloney" look, slowly letting it merge to a "Okay, whatever you say" look.  "You not only travel through different realities, but you also move up and down time within that reality?"

"You bet," Paul said.  "How else can you covertly explore up and down a person's timeline and get their history?  Since we're not in phase with this dimension's karma, we can do it at will."

"Whacked Out Scientists spying from invisible RV's!  Next on Sick Sad World!!"

"I can't believe you still watch this stuff," Sean said, a remote ready in his hand to channel surf.

"Sure you do," his Daria replied, kissing him on the cheek.  "After all, you bought me the SSW Day Planner last Christmas."

"It was on sale," he mumbled.

"You bought it before Christmas, not after.  I saw the receipt," she replied, snuggling up to him some more.

Sean looked into his Daria's eyes and leaned in to kiss her.  "MOMMY?!  CAN YOU READ ME A BEDTIME STORY?!!" came the blaring words of a 6-year old on the other side of the house.  Several neighbors hoped she would read to her soon so a second query wasn't required.

"Oh, oh!" Alex began, shushing up Daria and Paul.  "Shhhhh!  This is the best part."

Sean and Daria stopped the kiss before it started.  Pulling back, they looked at one another.  Sean's right hand came out in a fist.  Daria's left hand came out in a fist.  "On three," Sean said, Alex mimicking it.

Sean and his Daria pumped their fists three times.  Sean finished up with a fist.  Daria finished up with a flat hand.  "Paper covers rock," she said victoriously.  "You get the bedtime story."  She chuckled.

He got up and walked towards the bedroom.  Alex followed up the stairs, driving the entire way on an invisible path.  He stopped when Sean entered the room.  The three daughters shared the room.  They were all in bed.  He stopped by a bookcase and grabbed a few books.

"Aaahhhh, that was my favorite scene of this line.  I love watching it every time I come here," Alex said, relaxing in his RV-pilot chair.

"What?  The kissing?" Daria asked.

Alex looked at her eyes, wanting to make his point.  "No," he said simply.  "All of it.  The whole interaction.  To me, this is the mark of a healthy marriage."

"I didn't see anything significant," Daria said honestly.

"I don't think you appreciated it for what it was since you don't really know the history of this Daria and Sean.  You see, this bedtime ritual incorporates everything a marriage should.  You may have seen them competing to get _out_ of having to read to their kids, but instead they were competing to see who could read _TO_ their kids.  What you don't know is that this Daria almost always does paper and Sean always does Rock."

"Almost always?" Daria asked skeptically.

"Eight months out of the year, just not during football season which is when Daria changes hers to scissors.  To me, they both know what the other one is doing and they're okay with it.  If they didn't know what the other one was doing, then playing Paper-Scissors-Rock would have more random choices over the years.  But during winter, spring and summer, Sean reads to the kids and only during the fall does Daria do it.  This has been going on for more than four years."

Daria didn't get it.  "Why don't they just make up a reading schedule and stick to it?"

Alex smiled.  "It's a little game they play.  And it's just a little quirk that happy couples sometimes have.  Besides, making a schedule is so orderly and normal.  And if you and all the other Daria's I've met are one thing – it's not normal."

"Well, I gu… hey!"

Alex and Paul laughed at her reaction and she had to smirk over it a bit herself.  He had gotten one on her fair and square.

"Do you mind if we watch it again?" Daria asked.  Sean nodded and they rode the timeline back a few minutes to just before the bellow of the 6-year old.

This time Daria watched the action unfold with more interest.  She noticed the differences and looks Sean and the other Daria gave each other when the bellow came.  Their easy smile as they started the Paper-Scissors-Rock.  The look of mild surprise (i.e., fake surprise) on Daria's face when Sean did his "rock".  His look of mock defeat.

She had Alex run them back one more time in case she missed something the first time around.  She then watched it to the conclusion where Sean finished up a book and kissed his children goodnight while tucking them in.  Daria stood in the doorway while he did that.  Then, together they headed back to the couch and the TV.  And some smooching.

Daria had to admit, this other Daria's marriage seemed a lot better than her parent's.  "So what do I … I mean, this other Daria do for a career?  She's not a full-time mom is she?" Daria asked critically.

"Absolutely not," Alex replied quickly.  "She's a published writer.  So far with three books."

"That's a relief.  How were they received?"

"Actually pretty well.  But then it's hard to give children's books bad reviews and still look at yourself in the mirror the next morning."

"What?!" Daria shot back, eyes going wide.  "Children's books?!  I … she sold out?"

Alex was perplexed.  "What do you mean, sold out?  She always wanted to write and now she's doing it.  She's certainly happy writing children's books and she has a knack for it.  She's working on her fourth one now."

Daria was unmoved.  "She sold out.  If she was like me like you insinuated, she'd want to write scathing commentaries about social acceptance or barring that, then at least a good shoot-em-up novel.  Not _kiddie stuff."_

"Well," Alex began cautiously, "while all realities are different, they are based on similarities.  This Daria is like you.  But she isn't you.  Paul, could you please open D32J1-10 and display on viewer?"

"Opening," he replied.  Almost immediately, 10 pictures about 10-inches square appeared on the front window of the RV, covering most of the viewing area.

"Thank you, Paul.  Daria, look at this," he said, indicating the first picture to show.

She looked.  It appeared to be herself at home about age 15 with a firm resolve not to show emotion at the kitchen table as Quinn was blabbing on about something.  A time index stamped it as a morning shot.  Daria saw some differences in the hair length and such but it basically looked like her.

Alex leaned over and asked, "What do you see?"

"Quinn-ism."

"You see yourself in this, am I right?"  She nodded yes.  "I thought so.  Now look at the next one.  What do you see?"

That picture showed a Daria about age 16 in school being passed by Quinn and the Fashion Club, Quinn ignoring her.  She again showed that firm resolve not to show emotion.  "Same.  Typical Quinn behavior."

"Right.  Now this one?"

The third one showed a 17-year old Daria bending over and picking up papers and notebooks, with a young-looking Sean next to her.  Daria's expression is grim.  "Anger.  She's showing anger," Daria said.

"And this one?"

The fourth showed a Daria about age 18 at the senior prom with Sean.  She looked radiant in her dress and danced closely with her date.  He seemed like he was in 7th heaven with her in his arms.  "Happiness," she supplied honestly.  "Happy that Quinn's not around more than likely."

"Could be, could be.  And this one?"

The fifth showed a Daria about age 19 meeting (what phasics'd Daria guessed) Sean's parents.  They were having dinner with them – and it wasn't lasagna.  "She looks happy for not having lasagna," phasics-Daria said enviously.

"You're probably right about that.  Now how about this one.  It's more in the future of this Daria.  She's about age 20 and in college.  Look at her concentrating in class with the other students – listening to the instructor.  She, and you, never did that before in high school."

"They didn't know anything," Daria said immediately, assured an easy victory.

"Even DeMartino or Defoe?"

"He's nuts!  His eye bugs out all the time."

"True.  But then look at the torture Kevin inflicts on him mindlessly.  Even the VC would have been pressed to hurt him any worse than Kevin does.  But what about Defoe?  What negative thing can you say about her?"

"Uhm…"

"You didn't give her any slack because she doesn't measure up to your brainpower, so you barely participated in her art course, earning you your first B in years."

"I got an A," Daria corrected.

"No, you worked for your "A" by clouding the mind of Principal Li with legal issues until she forced Ms. Defoe to change the grade or face disciplinary actions."

Daria looked downcast.  Alex was right.  She had done that last semester.  She hadn't even earned the "B" – it was just something that Defoe usually gave to everyone who came to class even to use it as a study period like she'd done.

Alex continued.  "This picture is Daria age 21 in college.  Here she is at a party with even a beer in her hand.  This is her birthday party and everyone she's been friends with in High School is there as well as her college friends.  And there's Sean singing her a song.  Doesn't she look pleasantly embarrassed.  That shot was a keeper."

"Now I'm drinking?"

"It gets worse.  This one is Daria about age 22 at college graduation.  Look at her expression as she gets her diploma and graduates at the top of her class.  To me, that smirk of hers says volumes that she knows that she put herself through school on her own terms.  Jake and Helen didn't help put her through – they were too busy with Quinn's little problems.  They didn't even show up to her graduation as they were bailing Quinn out at the time."

"It's easy to study when you've got the grades and the grants."

"True," Alex conceded.  "But she did work a part time job while going to school.  She enjoyed eating as well as learning."

The next one showed Daria about age 23 getting married.  Everyone that she knew was there, even Quinn.

"Quinn at my marriage.  I thought I'd never live to see the day."

"Quinn at your marriage or you getting married to begin with?"

"Both.  Either.  I don't know."

"Neither did this Daria.  But at that time she didn't really care what Quinn was doing or even if she was trying to upstage her somehow.  All she cared about was the person she was marrying.  The person who cared for her more than anyone else."

The last picture showed Daria about age 24 in a hospital recovery room.  She and Sean were smiling at one another while mother cradled daughter in her arms.  Sean's parents are in the room with the happy new parents and the sleeping baby.

"She's creating her family," Daria whispered.

"She is.  And before you say it, no, Jake and Helen aren't there yet.  They hadn't gotten off from work.  They showed up later that night."

"She looks beautiful," Daria commented.

Alex hid a grin.  "So you see, there are some parallels to your line, Daria, but this one is unique as well.  This Daria was following your path but then fate intervened and she decided that her happiness was more important than a scathing commentary about lackluster grades in the schools.  She decided she liked writing stories involving her children rather than stories with chambered rounds and buckets of blood."

"Yeah, but fate is a cruel mistress," Paul scorned.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Daria asked.

Paul unplugged himself form a sensor array and said, "Take a look for yourself."  The pictures all vanished and a new image appeared, full action.  Sean got out of his van and headed into a building obviously under construction.  It was early morning and the chill was still in the air.  He was the only person there so far.

Paul continued, "This view is what happens 2 months, 3 days, 8 hours, 14 minutes out from present.  He is a foreman on this building project.  I'll zoom it up 14 minutes.  There.  Now watch."

They did.  Suddenly, the building collapsed.  They both heard the groaning of metal and pounding of brick and stone as it hit the ground.  But they didn't hear Sean.

Alex sat quietly.

Shocked, Daria asked, "What happened…"

Plugged in again, Paul interjected, "The building collapsed.  Cause – substandard building materials used by another group and a paid off inspector."

Daria turned on Paul.  "Not the _building, to __Sean!"_

Paul said quietly, "He didn't make it.  He was crushed.  In a few days, the building inspector is arrested and eventually serves a year in jail.  The subcontractors skip town and aren't heard from again."

"And this other me?" Daria started.

Paul zipped the screen into fast forward and stopped it a minute later.  They were watching a funeral.  Daria's older different self sat by a graveside as the casket with her husband in it was lowered to the ground.  Her daughters were sitting with her.  They were all crying.

Daria watched all this in real time.  The casket was lowered.  People milled around and eventually wandered off to their cars and to the waiting refreshments.

Daria was not comforted by her family even though they hugged her.  She wasn't comforted by Sean's family as they did the same.  Her eyes narrowed and her crying eventually stopped.  The gaze was not comforting to the phased Daria at all.

"Well, Daria, you don't have to worry about her selling out anymore," Paul said.

"Explain, please," she returned, not taking her eyes off the scene.  She couldn't.

"Paul, route it to my console, please.  Thanks."  Alex began viewing the information that Paul had compressed.  After a few minutes, and while the mourners were still leaving the gravesite, he said, "It appears that your counterpart's next children's book never materializes.  Instead she becomes cold and cynical and quits writing children's books and concentrates on good ol' blood 'n' guts, creating a fine line of Melody Powers novels.  They become quite successful – that's good I suppose, and she begins spending more time on the road promoting them.  Her daughters are left behind more and more with their grandparents or family fiends like Lane.  Her oldest daughter starts to shield herself off from her mother and find refuge in reading.  Hey, look at this.  She graduates early and goes to college on a full scholarship."  Then, " Hmmmm."

That broke her concentration. "What?" she asked.

"Looks like her daughter marries some loser and doesn't even invite anyone to the ceremony.  Not that it was much of one to begin with since she got married by a judge at the courthouse.  Jeez, she doesn't even tell her mother she's married until she shows up on her doorstep pregnant and the loser having run off with some other floozy."

"We've got to do something.  There's no way we can let a daughter of mine marry a Kevin."

Alex shook his head.  "Sorry.  I've been this route before and it isn't pretty.  But don't worry about it, we'll just find another dimension where they don't have this cause and effect timeline."

"Somewhere Sean didn't die?" she asked getting to the point.

Alex shrugged his shoulders.  "Sure."

"Somewhere they both still do paper-scissors-rock?"

"Anything's possible on this buggy."

Daria looked at him critically.  "You're not sure, are you?"

Alex sighed.  "It'll take time, but eventually we'll find something," he said hopefully.

"Forget it.  I want this couple helped."

Now it was Alex's turn to look at her critically.  "Why?  She's doing something you want to do.  She's not selling out."

Daria narrowed her eyes and looked at the empty grave site, noting the lingering figure of the alternate-Daria.  Quietly, she said, "I have my reasons."

"Is there any way I can talk you out of this?" Alex asked hopefully.

"No.  I don't even know why you have to ask.  She's another version of your sister, another version of me.  I thought you'd want to jump in to help her.  This being your favorite place and all."

"I do want to help, it's just that I'm not looking at meeting a TDDR again and going through another temporal-bounce."

"How would they know?"

Alex turned towards her.  "We tracked her timeline, remember?  We went through time.  They're aware.  We do anything to change this line now, they'll be all over us like slop on a pig."

"We've still got to help them," Daria insisted, her eyes conveying more than just wanting to do the right thing.

Alex sighed again and pulled a quarter out of his pocket.  "We'll play random chance.  Heads or tails.  Call it in the air."  He flipped the coin.

"Tails," Daria called, watching it rotate to the ground.

Alex caught the coin, slapped it to his wrist and lifted it up for Daria to see.  "It's tails.  What do you want done?"

She let loose a sigh of release.  "I certainly don't want this future for me… her… _whoever_!"

"Paul, give me a focal point."

Paul replied immediately, "Sean's death is primary."

Daria was on it instantly.  "Sounds good to me.  I don't want Sean to die."

"Paul, what are the best options to accomplish this?" Alex asked.

Paul began counting the possibilities on one of his four hands.  "Car wreck on way to site will minimize temporal shock.  Sabotage of car will result in him getting ride in another car with possible other casualties.  Ailment such as flu or cold won't stop him from still working.  He needs to be in a car wreck that will keep him out of commission for one additional hour from impact as that is time range it takes the building to collapse."

"That doesn't sound too tough," Daria supplied.  "We take my car and I fender bender him, we wait for cops to show up and …"

  
Alex stopped her.  "No can do, Daria.  We need to get him out of commission first try and it has to be severe enough for him to remain himself instead of one of us staying there with him."

"Why?"

"We're out of time with this dimension.  That doesn't mean that time has stopped for us, just that we're out of time.  Once we leave phasics-space, we begin to interact with real time and unless it is our exact time, we will start to get sick.  At best we have about 3 minutes to accomplish what we want before either getting back to phasics-space or going back to real time the hard way."

"I'm not sure I understand.  You were in my dimension for a long time and you didn't get sick."

"True.  But then I wasn't out of time."

She digested this, then asked, "You said 'the hard way.'  What's the hard way mean?"

"You really don't want to experience it.  I've done it once and it isn't pleasant.  Think of it as being that little bit of chew someone sticks in their mouth and then swarshes around for awhile and then spits out, only to run dirtily down the sidewalk, mixing with year-old gum on your way to the sewer."

"Nice imagery," Daria sarcasmed.

"Thanks."

"Anything else?" she asked.

"Oooooohhhh, yeah.  That's only the beginning of what feels like a day-long sensation of being splotched around by something out of your control.  Which it is.  The only way you get lucky is if you pass out.  But I had too much of a morbid curiosity to see what happened and resisted passing out the last time it happened to me."

An empty minute passed between them.  Paul continued to run calculations.

"So what do we do?" she asked.

"Like Paul says.  Car accident.  Do you know how to hotwire a car?"

"No," she replied honestly.

Paul asked, "Want to learn?"

*********

It was still early in the morning, the chill still in the air as Sean got into his van.  His breathing could be seen as he waited for the lousy heater to start putting out something Sean vaguely remembered _as heat.  A few minutes later, the air warmed to a balmy 45 degrees, Sean pulled out from the house and began the 30 minute drive to the construction site._

About halfway into the drive, Sean was doing 50 along a 2-lane road, rounding a curve when an old white Buick monstrosity appeared out of the light fog coming towards him.

Sean slowed going into the curve like he normally did.

The Buick crossed the double yellow and swerved to avoid him, cutting the front end back the way he came.

  
Unfortunately, this had the effect of blocking the road, its tail end on Sean's side – and he didn't have a way to stop in time.

He hit the brakes anyway!  What else was he going to do?

SMASH!!! 

Sean's van crashed into the Buick's rear panel, pushing the car back about four meters and crushing in the front of his van.

The impact threw him forward but the seatbelt kept him from going more than a few centimeters out before tightening around his torso and waist, retraining him.  Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the clipboard on his dash which shot backwards towards his head, whacking him on his forehead, gashing out three inches of scar material.

Groggy from the blow, and blood falling into his eyes, he looked towards the Buick.

The was no driver.

*********

Alex collapsed in the buggy, his breathing labored.  Almost gasping, he asked, "Paul, could you get me some aspirin please?"  He took off his helmet and Daria saw he was sweating profusely as he gulped the water and aspirin.  "Status?"

"His car is pinned," Paul replied.  "He won't be going anywhere for a bit."

"More importantly, he's alive," Daria came to the point.  "Paul, could you please contact the authorities about this crash?"

"Sure thing, Daria.  On a plus side, I just did a quick scan on the timeline and it appears that no one died in the building when it crashes later today.  Tomorrow's paper says that it collapsed before workers arrived."

"That's a relief," Daria said.

FFRRRRWWOOOOOOOSHHHHHH! 

The Buick, hit in the rear, had been leaking gasoline.  A sparking engine ignited the fuel which raced back to the source and had the bad luck of exploding the car.

Alex grabbed a bucket and threw up, unable to hold it down any longer.

"Paul," Daria worried, "where's Sean?!"

"He's still in the van.  The crash buckled his frame and the door is stuck.  He's pinned in by the dash and can't get to the other door.  But he's trying."

"Sean'll be roasted alive unless we get him out!  Open the door!  I'm going out!" Daria instructed, pulling off her helmet and grabbing the pry bar they had used a little while ago to break into the Buick.

 "I'll go," Alex volunteered.  He got up and just as quickly nearly fell over, clutching his stomach and gasping for breath.

"No time!  Paul, _please," Daria pleaded._

"Daria…" Alex began.

"No, Alex," Paul informed.  "You've lost too much cohesion to be effective out there."

Behind Alex a light pulsed and grew to a line, which just as quickly opened and a woman wearing a blue and gray skintight outfit appeared, her face hidden behind a black helmet.  "No one's going anywhere, creeps!" she barked.  "You've already done damage to this timeline!  You're under arrest!"

"Move aside or Sean'll die!" Daria pleaded.

The intruder raised a pain-gun, just like Alex had handed to her a reality away.  "Don't move or I'll fire."

Paul flung a toaster at the woman, knocking her helmet in a few inches on the faceplate.  "Eep!" she cried out.

"God-damned TDDRs!" Alex shouted, jumping on her and bringing her to the floor.  "Gotta be a busy-body to everyone in the damn universe!"

Paul rotated his head towards Daria and yelled, "Three minutes!"  He then opened the side door and Daria jumped out, sprinting to the van.

Daria avoided the burning car and went straight for the driver's door.  She saw a still-groggy, and bleeding Sean look at her for help.

She jammed the pry bar into the seam of the door and pulled.  It opened a little and then jammed.

She pulled it out and thrust it in again for a new hit, pulling with all her strength.  

The door creaked open a bit more.

She dropped the bar and yanked it open the rest of the way.  Sean nearly fell into her arms, which in turn nearly threw her to the ground as she hadn't expected someone roughly her height to be so damn heavy.

In the distance, Daria heard the familiar hair of a police siren as she dragged Sean to safety, the fire of the Buick now torching the van's interior.

A dazed Sean looked up and saw a young Daria leaning over him.  "Daria?" he asked, unsure what was happening.

She gritted her teeth, tightened her eyes and looked at him.  Blue and white sparks began popping up around her.  She noticed the impromptu fireworks but didn't want to leave him just yet.

The impact had kept Sean pinned to his seat and Daria noticed he was losing blood from a gash on his left leg.

"Save your strength," she grimaced, her stomach pulling a lurch through her spleen.  "You're hurt but help's on the way.  You're going to be fine."  She placed Sean's hand over his leg wound and got him to hold it, to keep at least some blood in.

More sparks joined the blue and white.  Now there were red, orange and yellow.  Sean was sure he was hallucinating.

"You're an angel," he couldn't help saying.  The lights dancing around her were mesmerizing.

She saw the lights of the cop car rounding the bend and got up to leave.  She clutched her stomach as the spleen rejected it and sent it in search for lodging up near the lungs.

She stumbled her way to where the buggy was.  Her right leg spasmed and she fell to the ground.  Her spleen was on its way to her eyes to make new fiends.  She limped up and made for the buggy – she knew it was nearby even though she couldn't see it any longer.  No, wait, there it was – she could barely make the outline of it.

Breathing labored, she struggled to get there.  Step after step.  She was going to make it.

Until a blue wave of nauseousness smashed into her, bearing a green gift of boot scrubbing snacks.  She felt her lungs reject the stomach but hold it for ransom from her heart.  Beat, beat, beat went to beatbeatbeatbeat.  The timeline was rejecting her and wanted to flammingly flammer her back to where she should be.  The hard way.

She collapsed.

Then vanished as the Buick exploded for good measure.

The officer stopped his car near Sean, got out and radioed for assistance.  He then went to check on the occupant of the Buick.  There wasn't one.

He never did see the "angel," despite Sean's objections.

*********

Daria woke up on her bed.  Groggy, she reached for her glasses only to open her eyes and find them already on her face.

Crap, she thought.  It was a stinking dream.  Looking down, she saw the fresh blood on her hand.  She inhaled sharply and smelled her clothes reeking of smoke and ode de burning car.

It was the middle of the night she noticed.  The clock read 3:04am.  She unlocked her door and checked on the others.  Her parents and sister, Quinn the shallow, were asleep.  Quietly, she went to the bathroom, and cleaned up best she could, washing out the bloodstains from her clothes and removing the bodysuit that Alex insisted she wear to help slip through phasics-space.  

Oddly, when she removed the bodysuit, it simply vanished.  But on a positive note, it took most of the burning car stink with it.  Daria finished cleaning up, washing her face and getting some smudge marks out of her hair, and went back to her room.

Her mind was awhirl with thoughts and images.  Reality or not reality.  Or was it non-reality?  Or was she in a non-reality?  Was she going to get a job?  Who invented liquid soap and why?  Why did they play baseball during hockey season?  Didn't they know you got more body checks per game with hockey than baseball?  What the hell was she thinking anyway?!

"Planning on going somewhere?" a familiar voice asked as Daria finished putting on her boots.

"Not really," she replied, not looking at Alex.  "I just thought I'd have these one in case I needed them.  By the way, what took you so long getting back here?"

"We had to ditch the TDDR.  She was a mess," he admitted.  Daria finished with her boots and looked up.  Alex was standing by her closet door.  She could see the faint outlines of the shuttle-buggy behind him, its door open but still in quasi-phasics if she could see it at all.

"You didn't… kill her did you?" Daria asked delicately.

"Hell no.  Those TDDR's may be assholes, but I wouldn't kill them for doing their job.  No, after you left I kind of threw up on her which freaked her out good.  Next thing you know she just wouldn't leave the shuttle-buggy until we cleaned her up."

"You get evicted then?"

Alex simply nodded.  "Yep.  I've also been evicted from here because of a current change to a future problem.  I've got just enough time to see if you're okay and then I've got to leave."

Daria walked over to him, folded her arms and looked at him with a deadpan expression.  A quiet moment went by between the two.  Then she kicked him in his right shin.

"Gah-dammit!" Alex nearly shouted, keeping his voice down by sheer will alone.  He hobbled over to Daria's bed and collapsed on it, massaging his shin.

"Who are you really, Alex?" she asked, walking over to him.

"What are you talking about, Daria?" he answered evasively.

She kicked him again in his other shin.  "Gah!" he bit his lip.  Those steel-toed boots really hurt!  Sunuva…!

Daria went into lawyer mode.  "You've been lying to me all night.  One: you said that your parents abandoned you when in fact they are dead.  Paul confirmed that when you were passed out.  Semantics aside, your reference insinuated they were still alive."

"Yeah…" he began.

"Don't interrupt," Daria warned.  He stayed silent.  "Two.  You say you're my adopted brother but when you went to those other dimensions to conduct your "experiments", you didn't go to your parents but instead went to mine.  This got me to thinking of why you would do that.  Three.  You seem to have details about my family in all these other dimensions but have virtually none about your supposed family.  You avoid questions.  I found myself thinking why to this as well.  Four.  You crashed here earlier tonight after losing cohesion in another dimension.  You said yourself that you go back to the last dimension you were in, meaning you were here before.  Why?  Five.  You just mentioned you're being kicked out of this reality because you went to the future and changed a current time.  What did you change?  Six.  The shuttle-buggy had my DNA on file even though you implied I, or another me, had never been on it.  And seven: the way you swear is familiar.  We are related, only you're not my adopted brother, are you?"

Alex sat there but didn't say anything.

Daria kicked him again.

"Gah-dammit!" he swore again, massaging his right leg again.  "Could you quit doing that?  It really hurts."

"Then answer the question.  Who is Alex Jacobsen really?  The truth this time."

Alex massaged his aching shins.  He sighed.  "Alex Jacobsen is your mutually adopted brother from D-5.  When I've interacted with timelines in the past, I'd use his history as a cover.  I was making ready for another interaction, going over some facts when we lost cohesion in D-86 after running into a TDDR.  We crashed here and my history and the other Alex became mingled when I wasn't thinking straight.  After I got my memory back on track, I couldn't undo what I said.  So I kept up the lie."

"What's your real name?"

"Alex Smith."

"Why did you come here?"

Alex got up and went to Daria's nightstand.  He opened the drawer and pulled out a small package and tossed it to her.  He looked at her but didn't say anything else.

Daria tensed as he invaded her privacy.  Her eyes bulged as he tossed the package towards her.  She gulped and put it in her pocket, then looked back at Alex.  "Who are you, Alex Smith?"

"Please don't ask me that.  I can't tell you," he replied softly.

"Can't?  Or won't?"

"Paul, we ready to phase?" he quickly asked as Paul floated by the closet door.

"Yo."

"How are we related, Alex?" Daria asked, tension creeping into her voice.

Alex looked at her, squinted his eyes and pulled his helmet on.  He then strode towards the closet and into the shuttle-buggy.  Daria watched him leave.  She watched Paul view her, his eyes pulsating through the rainbow.  Paul then opened a chest cavity and pulled out an envelop which he put on her desk before flying through her closet and onto the buggy.  The light faded as the door closed and reality was once again solid.

Alex and Paul were gone.  

Slowly, Daria moved to the closet.  There was no trace an RV had just been in there.  She looked at the envelop on her desk.

She opened the envelope and pulled out three items.  The first was a picture showing an older Daria with a small boy in her arms next to another man who had his arms wrapped around her.  Also in the photo was her sister, her mother, father and what appeared to be her father's parents – all smiling for the camera (what the… ol' Mad Dog smiling, and more importantly – alive?).  Weird.

The second item was a newsclipping which read in part:

Athens, Greece.  Peace talks were shattered yesterday when terrorists broke through the US Embassy's security and detonated a several bombs, killing 11, among them senior diplomats Jake Morgendorffer, his daughter, Quinn Morgendorffer, and junior diplomats Roger Smith and his wife, Daria Morgendorffer-Smith.  Jake is survived by his wife, Helen, father Major M.D. Morgendorffer and grandson, Alex Smith.

The third item was a small packet of yellow goo.  On it was a label that read: _Temporal memories.  For answers to all your questions, best if ingested immediately – like now.  _Sitting on her bed, Daria tore open the packet, pinched her nose and swallowed the nanos.  Gyyyaaaaa, it was like swallowing glue mixed with gold stars and dog saliva.

However, almost immediately she saw Athens beyond her door, rushing towards her.  She blinked and was in the middle of a city she had never been in before.  

She notices her perspective.  She is in the photo she had been holding a moment before.  A photographer takes a few more snaps and finishes up.  She notices this but is not part of the picture.  She sees old Mad Dog there and actually being civil to Jake, clasping him on the shoulder and smiling, her dad smiling back.  Her mother is there as is Quinn.  They are all enjoying their time.  A little boy who looks like Alex runs around the room.  An older Daria picks him up and kisses him, before giving him to what appears to be her husband.  

The scene flashes forward with a light.  Alex looks bored and wants to go outside to play.  His mother reluctantly agrees to do so, letting a staff bodyguard go with him.  

The scene shifts again and he is outside playing with some Greek kids.  They are having a good time.  Some people come by and the little boy notices something odd about them.  But he doesn't do anything.  The bodyguard is buying something at a store and doesn't see anything.  The boy begins to follow the odd men but is interrupted first by the bodyguard who wants him to come back and then by the kids he's playing with who want to continue the game.  He looks back at the odd men and then grins, forgetting what he was doing a moment before.  

The scene shifts again and she knows it is 20 minutes later.  She isn't sure how she knows, just that she does.  A loud boom as a bomb goes off is heard.  The boy stops playing.  Visual images shift chaotically.  The boy runs home, a terrified expression on his face.  He sees the face of one of the people he noticed earlier in the rubble.  He searches for his mother.  He finds her.  It's Daria.  

She's dead.  It's his fault for not stopping the odd men.

Daria woke up and came out of the scene immediately.  She remembered the images, the smells, the voices, the agony.  But she needed time to absorb it.

She got up and went downstairs to the kitchen.  She could still smell the lingering scents of burned wiring in the air.  Paul must not have gotten all of the air cleaned like he did with the walls and floor.

She reached for a glass and filled it up with water.  Opening another cabinet, she pulled down a bottle of aspirin and popped a couple into her mouth before guzzling down half a glass of water to counter the chalky taste.  She winced as she tasted the remnants of the goo still in her throat.

She then took the bottle of sleeping pills that Alex had pulled out of her nightstand and slipped it into her backpack, intending to return them tomorrow.  After all, their proceeds would make a good dent in purchasing another pizza.

She went back upstairs and sat on her bed, taking her boots off.  She looked at her nightstand and there was another envelope that hadn't been there a few minutes before.  She opened it.  Inside was a note from Alex.

Dear Daria:

It's an interesting thing phasing through dimensional time.  I get to meet all sorts of interesting people and see all sorts of interesting events.  It was an accident how I arrived at your home, but not an accident that I came.  Thank you for "adopting" me.  You can never have too much family.

"Except for maybe Quinn," Daria quipped sarcastically.

Okay, maybe except for Quinn.  I'll give you that.  But as family I feel it is my duty to tell you that my birthday is August 1st and I'm allergic to sentimental cards.  I'll be back in August.  Take care.

"At least Paul didn't get in a snide comment this time," Daria muttered.

Don't be too sure of that, fleshie.

"What the…." she began.

Never mind Paul, Daria.  He's just having one of his "technical" moods.

No I'm not.

Yes you are.

Am not, fleshie.

Oh, I'm sorry, is this me turning off your sensor array by accident?  

Click.  

I guess it is.

Fles….

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Write me a letter about it, 'puter-boy!  Sorry about that, Daria.  I hope you have a good and long life.  Be cool.  

Alex

AND PAUL 

(you know, the non-fleshie yet dashing AI that you can't live without – ha, ha)

Daria smiled and folded the note, putting it back in the envelope.  She opened a drawer and put the note inside a small box with other letters and very old birthday cards.  

*********

**Monday Afternoon:**

Daria returned to a familiar classroom after school let out.  Inside was one other person.  She had raven-dark hair, a red jacket, the same kind of boots Daria was wearing and an expression that said she would've rather gnawed her leg off rather than be in that classroom.

Self Esteeming was already underway.  Wheeee.

Daria sat down next to her since she knew she'd have to move anyway as O'Neill always wanted everyone close together for some oddball touchy-feely reason or another.

The other girl gave Daria the once over as well after noticing the good footwear taste.  "What're you in for?" she asked as Daria took her seat.

"Attitude adjustment one way or the other," Daria deadpanned.  "I'm hoping they use more electricity this time around.  You?"

"Same.  I'm just hoping they don't have a brown-out like last time."

Daria arched her eyebrow in question.  "Details?"

"You first," came the reply.

"Can do.  Ms. Li wanted me to write an essay for a national magazine lauding the achievements of Lawwwwwwnnndale High.  I simply told her no."

The dark-haired girl arched her eyebrow as well and asked, "Simply?"

"No, not really.  I added a few choice adjectives and adverbs to the word 'no'."

The other girl grinned and said, "I joined track because I wanted a challenge.  Then it turns out the coach pressured my teachers into giving me good grades as long as I kept winning.  Hey – I worked damn hard on my perfect "C" average.  No one was gonna take it way without a fight.  When she wanted me to join track practice today, I gave her a few choice adjectives and adverbs to the word 'no' as well.  And next thing you know, the banishment to self esteemism."

Mr. O'Neill walked in and noticed the two girls talking.  "Good, good," he said pleasantly, clasping his hands.  "I see you two are already pepping up your self esteem!  This is a good first step."

They stared at him as if a bug just landed on his nose.

"Now why don't you introduce yourselves to one another," he prompted, oblivious of the imaginary bug.

"Name's Daria."

"Hey.  Jane."

They returned to staring at O'Neill and the imaginary bug on his face.

"Now you two can do better than that!  Think positive!  Try it again, this time with last names!  Think of this as an adventure in life that will never end."

Daria looked at Jane and extended her hand.  "Daria Morgendorffer."

Jane shook it and said, "Hey.  Jane Lane."

Daria's eyes opened a bit at the name recognition.

O'Neill, pleased expression still on his face, said, "Good, good.  You're conversing which is good.  Now what are some things you enjoy doing."

Again, Daria looked at Jane.  

This time Jane asked, "Do you enjoy criminal activities?"

"Only when I know I won't be caught," Daria replied.

Jane and Daria smirked.

O'Neill sat flabbergasted.  Criminal activities?  Oh, my…

Friendship began.

*********

**2 Weeks later:**

Daria came home from Jane's and found a package waiting for her.  There was no return address.  Taking it upstairs she opened it in the confines of her room.  In it was a book and a note from Alex and Paul.

                Daria:

                Here's the latest book.  I thought you might like to take a look at it.

                Take a gander at the dedication.

                                --Alex & Paul

The book was the other Daria's latest children's book.  She opened it up to the dedication's page.  It read:

                To my wonderful husband, Sean, and our three daughters.  I love 

                you and I hope a guardian angel is watching over you all.

Yeah, Daria thought, as long as their guardian angel drove better than Alex did.  She closed the book, glad that Sean was still alive.  

*********

Later that night she was ready for bed.  She had on her t-shirt and shorts.

The lights were off.

In the dark she looked out her window at the full moon far above.

She sat and looked at Old Man Winter which had finally brought in a snowstorm a day earlier.

The house was quiet with the 'rents and Quinn asleep.

She wasn't writing.

She thought about her life.

And…

…she smiled.

She could only imagine what Alex and Paul were doing now.

**On the buggy:**

"Paul," Alex began, "flag this line to a revisit after the TDDR duration is up."

He rotated his head and flashed some blood-red eyes at him.  "Anything else you want me to do?  Wipe your ass or something?"

"You know, for an AI, you sure do nag a lot."

"Watch it, fleshie…"

"…nag, nag, nag…"

Life went on and Daria, at last, liked… some of it.  It was a start.

The End 

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

Mrs. Whitmore:                    So, what conclusions can you draw from this story?  Jim?  Steve?

Steve:                                     Well, that's what I asked Jim after we finished reading it the other day.  There are the obvious answers: suicide, friendship, obtuse A-I's.  But nothing concrete.  Nothing was stated for their hopes for the future.  So we decided to research the author and hope that might shed some light on it.

Jim:                                         But where to start?  We kind of hoped the object she left behind would help on that.  Inside the box we found a dried paintbrush.  Obviously an artist.  But on the handle were markings.  We thought at first they were splotches of paint but when we put it under a magnifying glass, we found symbols.

Steve:                                     Or what we first thought of as random symbols.  At the time we thought we were on a wild goose chase.  But the symbols looked familiar.  We found out that they were hieroglyphics.  We went to an Egyptian homesite and found a translation program.  We digitized the images and ran it through the program and were surprised at the message left behind by Jane.

Jim:                                         It read… (pulls out piece of paper)  "Don't you know it's not nice to read someone else's mail?  Go on, shoo already."

Several students and Mrs. Whitmore laugh at this.  Others have confused expressions.

Steve:                                     It was nonsense.  It was humor.  It was style.  And because we figured that she had style when she was a teenager…

Jim:                                         …she might have style as an adult.  She wasn't hard to track at all.  We ran a name search and found thousands of Jane Lanes.  Reducing the scope to include painter and/or humorist, we found the list shrunk to a more manageable couple dozen.  We did an age parameter and the list came down to six names.  We then ran a query through a PI system which tracked their jobs from the past 20 years.  Five of them had solid backgrounds in established businesses.  We ignored those and went to the last one which had no biz links yet was living in a mansion and owned an art gallery called Janey's Good Piktures N Stuff.  The name of the gallery clinched it.

Steve:                                     That and the fact they had a web site with a picture of the owner on it that matched the video footage we saw the other day.

Nick:                                       So, what else can you tell us about her?

Jim:                                         Married a couple times.  Became famous by painting sarcastic portraits of the rich and famous which for some reason became fashionable for about 10 years.  A decade from her mid-30's to her late 40's we couldn't find anything on.  We found some obscure reference in one newspaper clipping about her appearing at a vamp festival but who knows if it was her or what crap the reporter was smoking at the time – there was plenty of weird stuff happening back then.  Besides, the date of the article put it two full years beyond the last confirmed VLS-sighting.

Steve:                                     Not much else, however.  Couple other homes across the country.  She has four kids who are all married and is the grandparent of 13 kids.  

Nick:                                       So what do you think the story means?

Jim:                                         She wrote about her friend, Daria.  Her website contains a portrait she did when they were both teenagers.  It is named Friendship.  I think she wrote that story to mean they were friends.

Nick:                                       Anyone else?

Diane:                                     I think Jim's mostly right.  It has to do with friendship.  Only I think she meant it to indicate they were meant to be friends.

Nick:                                       Interesting that you should say that, Diane.  I did a little digging myself through the Li archives and found some footage regarding this story.  Uploading… now.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

BEGIN VIDEO 

October 2001.

Location: Lawndale High, cafeteria.  Time: afternoon.

Jane is sitting at a table in the cafeteria, already eating.  Daria walks up to the table and drops her backpack onto the bench, then sits down, no food at all.

Jane:                                       Ah, good move avoiding today's mystery meat surprise.  I tell you, the only surprise I get is where Ms. Li can come up with gruel this bad and it not be reported as a health issue.

Daria remains quiet.

Jane:                                       Yo, amiga.  Trouble in paradise?

Daria:                                      I just finished reading your story, Jane.

Jane:                                       (stops in mid-bite) I thought those were supposed to be anonymous submittals.  No one was to read them.  At least, no one this century.

Daria:                                      Yeah, well, they would've been tucked away and ignored by everyone if O'Neill didn't need someone to edit and enter them into his PC.

A minute of silence goes by between the two.

Jane:                                       So, what did you think?

Daria:                                      Quinn seemed to be the same no matter where you went – that seemed normal.

Jane grins.

Daria:                                      But I'm not suicidal, Jane.  

Jane:                                       Sure.  Not **now**.  Not after meeting me.

Daria:                                      (seemingly agonizing over her answer) … hell.  You're right.  

Jane:                                       We were meant to be friends, Daria.  It would've happened one way or another.

Daria:                                      Curse you and your insidious logic.

Jane grins again.

Daria smirks.

**VIDEO ENDS**

Nick:                                       Jim, Steve.  Good job.  Any volunteers for next week?

Two students raise their hands.

Nick:                                       Mike – Naomi?  You two volunteering?  Good enough.  

_NEXT:                                   Brittany's story: The Assassin & I_

Contact me if you want:

jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).  

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed.  Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you.  A coincidence!   To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real.  Or could it?  I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	3. Brittany's Story The Assassin & I

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!**

THE ASSASSIN & I By Brittany Taylor 

**(transcribed by Steve Brown)**

The stench reminded me of dead fish, rotting wood, rusting metal, cheap booze, and cheaper human scents caught in the tin and plaster wall of the warehouse I was crouched next to.  In short, it reminded me of Kevvie.  The night's arctic air couldn't wipe away the rancid odor.  All it could do was make me wish I'd brought along my coat every time a cold wind slapped my face.  This was the seediest pier in the harbor district.  I hated it.  The fact that it smelled like the football team's post-victory party room kept rent prices down and legit businessmen at bay.

On this section of the docks, there were nine warehouses.  Four on my side, four down and over the rotting wood which passed for a pier, and an 85-meter wide one at the end, connecting the L-shaped cluster of buildings.  My objective was that corner warehouse.  An easy enough stroll for anyone else, but Jodie was waiting for me... somewhere... close by.

There!  She was on the top of the second warehouse across the way!  Ah, dammit, she had a full view of the surrounding area.  More than ever I wanted to circle around back to get to my warehouse, but that route was booby-trapped.  I should know, I was the booby – while sneaking around the garbage dumpsters a few minutes back, I tripped a laser-sensor and caught a knife slash in my shoulder.  It'd be days before I could rah-rah with the rest of the squad.  I didn't press my luck (or my blood) looking for the rest of the traps; I knew they were there.  Jodie and I have played opposite before.

Jodie was a stout woman with fast reflexes and a cold attitude she acquired in student council.  Or was it from living at home?  I was never sure on that one.  Her 5-8 frame was lean but muscular.  I'd heard some say she was a looker – at least she didn't have any problems landing a guy.  Then again, neither did I.  We were virtually identical in build, speed, intelligence.  Virtually, but that wasn't an absolute.  She was black – whereas I'm white.  Don't get me wrong, this had nothing to do with racism; this was purely business.

A week ago I wasn't in this mess.  Close to it, but not yet recruited.  Overnight my paranoia took a path toward a higher intensity, a night two of my friends – Daria and Jane – bought it in a Ford pick-up.  Less then 12 hours later, BCIC Finn – the Big Cheese In Charge – contracted me to knock off three rival snipers.  Two of them were responsible for the deaths of my friends.  The third was Jodie.

It took awhile, but yesterday I eliminated two-thirds of that assignment, along with 20 kilos of good ol' Trinitrotoluene explosives and my favorite digital watch.  My birthday was coming up so I hoped Dad remembered to get me a new watch.  Again.  This morning I went to an airport drop-off locker to pick up additional information on Jodie's whereabouts, as well as more gun toys and my spare pom-poms considering the originals were sacrificed in loving memory yesterday.  

I got more than I bargained for.  

After I punched the lock a few times for not opening, a slip of paper fell out from between the cracks.  On it were the words: "IT'S JUST YOU AND ME NOW."  Then I heard the ticking.  I ran like hell for a whole three seconds before the charge exploded, taking my ammo, equipment, and this week's comic books with it.  Bloody bitch!  The weapons I could live without, but I was really looking forward to reading how Archie handled Veronica's latest trap.

Oh well, I didn't think the damage was too extensive.  I figured I could always replace the books (even though I'd have to pay outrageous back-issue prices).  Of course, a few lockers were also destroyed, and a section of the wall blackened, as well as a dozen or so air-traffic controllers were bandaged for concussions and then returned to work while still in a daze (not that it made much difference).

All of those memories pounding away at my conscience failed to elicit a response.  Worse things have happened.  Besides, I didn't have time to wonder what my presence did to any of the passerby's in the terminal area; I was too busy avoiding the A.P.B. some moronic cop attached to my face.  I've always been amazed at the stupidity of those jerks and this only served to heighten that impression.  Why they thought I'd bomb my own locker was beyond me.  It's not like I'm Upchuck or someone trying to hide my porno collection from Ms. Li's bloodhounds.

I kept most of my weapons and gear stored in lockers at public places (bus stations, train depots, foreign embassies), and the cache in the warehouse was the only accessible stuff I had that I could pick up without advertising where I was on short notice.  Somehow Jodie had found out about it and laid a trap.  But an ambush was only as good as the surprise it relied on.  Time to move.

Jodie had the advantage of position, and I couldn't let that bother me – a momentary lapse in concentration would prove fatal.  However, I had an advantage over Jodie in that I knew she carefully planned her locations and assaults for maximum effect.  This in itself wasn't a bad trait, but she usually left herself no margin for error and when the unexpected happened, it took her a minute or two to figure out the best way to cope with it.  And during that time she was fighting blind.

As for myself, I conceptualized battle plans as the need arose; I played it by ear so to speak.  That way I kept my options open and my mind alert, if not a bit reckless.  Cheerleading does that to a person.  Alert recklessness.  Why else would someone get on top of a human pyramid comprised primarily of non-muscular women?

Jodie was subsequently caught off guard when I sprinted from the warehouse I'd been hiding behind and squeezed off a few rounds to keep her head down.  I think she was expecting me to try and sneak my way by so she could snipe me down, or try a swim for the warehouse and let hypothermia take its course.  Instead, I wasted several clips of bullets keeping Jodie pinned down on my sprint.  Most of the slugs tore up the bricks she was hiding behind, but as I had neglected to bring armor piercing slugs, none penetrated.

I was running zigzag pattern #3 with three warehouses to go when Jodie cut down on me with her Mauser.  Damn!  Damn!  Damn!  What a fool I was!  I'd run this gambit before, and she must've remembered it.

Quicker than I could say, "Sayonara, sucker," Jodie pressed a detonation button.  Suddenly the warehouse I had just passed exploded and showered napalm – the pier was burning.  I ran faster.  The second run-down dump went up in a propane blast which knocked me off my feet.  The third building collapsed in on itself and the fourth detonated in a fit of dynamite.  The corner dump, my place, was left untouched.

Events quickly went from bad to worse.  While struggling to get up, local boneheads Fred and George, a pair of overpaid dock-cops earning minimum wage, showed up in a 20-year-old Plymouth, barely getting the brakes to work before they ran into debris from the first warehouse.  I knew them from reputation only.  I thought most of it had been exaggerated, but I was wrong.  I guess there actually **_were_** people that moronic.

Like the clowns they were, they stumbled out of their vehicle and pointed their guns at me.  One was a .22 and I could swear the firelight from the burning building was reflecting off of a pellet pistol.

Fred, the thinner of the two obese non-calorie counters, yelled, "Freeze, toots!  Make one move and Ah'll blow you away!  Don't matter much t'me, but George h'yer is itchin' to use his 'baby'!  So don't even breathe!"  To add strength to his "powerful" character, he spat out a large chunk of black chewing tobacco and spittle.

"Yeah, boy, move!  I haven't used 'baby' here in a week!  Hyuk, hyuk," added George in a somewhat fake Texan accent just like his partner's.  

Talk about redneck rent-a-cops.  His 'baby' was a .22 auto 10-shot.  Wow.  Soooooo impressive.  I could barely contain myself.  I wonder if he bought it at Wal-Mart or got it as a prize in a cereal box.

"Uhm, George, that's a girl, not a boy."

George took a harder gaze at my direction.  I scowled for effect while figuring out my next move.

"You sure?" he asked his partner.

"Shore.  See, she all's got blond hair and pigtails."

"My nephew's got that."

"Just shut up already," Fred commanded, then looked up.  "You there!  On the roof!  Yer unner arrest!"

"Gee, Fred, I don't think y'all got his attention.  Want me to get it?  Puh-leeeeeze?"

"Ah think it's another toots, George, but yeah, go ahead.  Hyuk, hyuk."

"Thanks.  Hey, whoever you are!  Get your dumb ass down here!"  With that he squeezed off a couple rounds, aiming at Jodie's head.

I couldn't help but laugh at their bad timing.  Bad for them, good for me.  In retaliation, Jodie sent down four armor piercing bullets and did a good job of destroying their engine block.  I had hoped that would've caused them to re-think their position and get the hell out of here.  Maybe go scrounge up some reinforcements, which would leave Jodie and me plenty of time to finish this.

Not a chance.  They returned fire at Jodie.  She countered with two rubber slugs from her riot gun.  Fred and George went down.  I didn't blame Jodie for shooting the dock cops – this fight was between her and me.  But if I stayed on my back any longer, it would be just her.

I got to my feet and limped toward my warehouse.  I pumped another clip at Jodie.  The building she was on and those next to it were still intact, though most likely wired to explosives.  There was only one thing to do.

While Jodie was under cover, I ducked into the fourth warehouse – the burning one.  The place had a great ventilation system, especially now that the blast had shattered all the windows and the back wall.  Desperately, I searched for the staircase leading to the roof.  I sure as hell didn't want to buy it in a joint that specialized in storing hot auto parts.

Outside I could hear Jodie screaming, "Shit!  Shit, shit!  Good try, Brittany!  But stupid!  You're going to roast in there!" her voice went horse as she yelled above the din the blaze was making.  Cautiously, she made her way through the door frame, an AK-47 at the ready.

"That's what you think!  Eat cafeteria food, you stinker!"  I emptied my remaining clip at Jodie, and missed (which I expected to anyway).  I got the doorway, though.  Then I threw my UZI at her and was rewarded with a dull **_thunk_** (the sweet sound that metal made when hitting flesh) and some imaginative cursing of my heritage.  

I didn't wait to see if she'd come after me.  I charged up the stairs taking them three at a time, using my arms to pull myself up along the banister, all the while wishing I'd had good air to suck in.  Jodie didn't follow.  The ache in my leg was receding.  I guess my brain had other more important things to worry about (like the damn fire) than a slight bruise on my calf.  But I knew I'd have to get something to cover it up before next Friday's big game.  No sense looking bad while cheering on the team.

Getting through the door to the roof was no problem – mainly due to the fact there was no door, just some burning wood.  I shoved my way through and then ignored the pain as I rolled across the rooftop, putting out the fire that had conveniently attached itself to my shirt.  I didn't worry about burn-scars on my torso; if I survived the night they'd make an interesting contrast to the barbed-wire scars on my legs.  Besides, a little moisturizer and it would all go away.  Hmmm, maybe I'd have to ask Quinn about that.  Or Sandi.  No, wait.  Sandi bought it yesterday.  Quinn, then.

I ditched the shirt and more than ever I wished I had brought a coat.  The night was a few degrees over freezing and even though right now I was in the middle of an inferno and more than a little on the warm side, give it a few minutes after I made it to safety and then it would feel like being in a freezer.

Half the roof was burning, fortunately not the half next to my warehouse or I'd have been dead.  Vertigo wasn't a problem with me, so I had no problem looking over the side of the burning building at the distant, distant, distant ground.  The warehouse was only a three-story affair, yet it felt like a 30-story nightmare.  Maybe I was wrong about vertigo.

There was a 10-foot leap waiting for me if I was to reach my building.  It was possible for me to jump it; I had done longer jumps in gym but when it came to reality, the ground looked deathly final if I slipped on my approach.

There was no time to think, only to jump.  The exertion was different from the way it was portrayed in the movies.  For one thing, I wasn't in slow motion.  I wished I had a stuntwoman to take the jump, but there I was spitting into the wind again.  My double had been waxed as soon as the contract was put out on me.

It wasn't a perfect landing, but I was alive.  I looked over the side of my warehouse for one last nostalgic look – I wasn't **_ever_** going to do that again.  Surprisingly, from this side it looked like a simple three-story drop.

Down below I saw Jodie and somebody else enter my building.  There wasn't much time to wonder who that other person was, but I didn't mind wasting brain energy on my way down from the roof.  When I got to the second level, a name still hadn't presented itself.  Everyone I knew who associated with Jodie was six feet under, or heavily sedated in the hospitals.  Who was this person?!

I stopped on the second floor and went to the First Aid box where I pulled out the _Emergency Use Only_ .357 Magnum I'd hidden in the bandages as well as a new shirt.  It only had six shots, so I had to make every one count.

At a growing limp, I made my way out of the offices and onto the catwalks that crisscrossed the space above the storage area.  I heard Jodie and company long before I saw them.  The talking I heard wasn't Jodie's, and wasn't hard to recognize.  I wished that it were, but wishful thinking never helped before.  

It was my boyfriend, Kevin.

"C'mon, Jodie, a joke's a joke," Kevin whined, his voice echoing through the building.  "Let go of my arm and take me home!  Owwww!  Jodie, quit walking so fast, I can't keep up!  Haven't you heard of the no hurting the QB rule at school?"

Bap.  "Owwww!" he whined again.  "I think I broke my toe on this stupid crate!"  To emphasize his point, he kicked the crate, hurt himself again, and started sobbing in earnest.

"Keep quiet," Jodie hissed in a low but forceful tone.  

He still bitched, but now it was at a whisper.  "What the hell did I ever do to you, babe?  I'm tired.  When can I go home?  My mom's going to kill me for being out late on a school night."  

Jodie stopped and sniffed the air.  

I cursed myself for not staying in a higher position.  She smelled my presence; after all, singed hair and smoldering clothes weren't natural scents in a warehouse that reeked of booze, dust, rotting wood and urine samples.  Even with the smoke from the other buildings sneaking in, burning polyester overpowered it like bad breath canceling a first date.

"Jodie," I started in a normal voice, letting the echo effect amplify the delivery and hide my location, "let Kevin go, amigo.  Bringing him into this isn't going to help you!  I'm not sentimental!"

"Brittany?" Kevin asked, more in annoyance than surprise.  "Is this another one of those stupid games you two babes are playing again?  I'm telling my mom!"

Poor Kevin.  He really didn't understand.  Not that I blamed him, since he had to grow up in Lawndale of all places.  Jodie too, considering we'd been neighbors for quite a few years.

"Glad you could join the party, Brittany," Jodie said.  "Careful now, chicka.  You wouldn't want to hit your boyfriend and upset your father, would you?

Did I?  Dad did like Kevin and considered him a future hall of famer in the NFL.  Then again, he thought giving me a crystal megaphone was the end all to beat all.  "**_Eat hot lead, sister!_**" I snapped, wasting all six rounds at the area Jodie vacated seconds before I began firing.  

She anticipated my moves.  It was a trait I thought every good assassin should have.  She was the first I'd gone up against who had it.

"Try harder," came a distant jab.  Then a quick laugh.

I followed the voice, trying not to make a sound.  No good.  A hail of lead welcomed me before I'd taken five steps.

"Low blow!" I taunted Jodie, trying to get her to reveal her position.  As usual, she did.

"Thank you," was her enthusiastic reply.

I picked up a crowbar and began trailing her again.  I deftly dropped down from the catwalks, took off my Nike's and began circling around to their position.  I also put my ventriloquist lessons to good use, throwing my voice in the hope it would distract Jodie.  Once close enough, I would brain her with the crowbar.  "I'm coming for you, Jodie.  There's no escape."

The voice didn't fool her.  "Sneaking up on me, eh?  Better luck next time, peroxide!" she yelled, then threw another volley of lead toward me.  

Now that was just downright mean.  My hair color was a natural blond.  I didn't need chemicals to keep it that color.  

While I was hiding, I saw her grab Kevin, push him through a door, go in herself and then close it.  "Brittany!  Help!  Jodie's gone crazy!  Help me, babe, we've got a big game this Friday night!  C'mon, I'm the QB!  Babe?!"

Bitch, moan, gripe, groan.  He was always complaining about something.  I made a run for my crate of weapons, fumbled with the crowbar in haste while prying the top off and mentally swore every time I cracked a nail.  The lid came off and eight weapons were waiting for me, ready for use.  

It had been some time since I last oiled these, and I sure as hell didn't have time now.  I just hoped it wouldn't explode in my face.  I loaded a MAC 10 and went back to the door.  It looked locked and was very thick; I should know, I'd had it installed.  Chances were my shoulder would be bandaged before the day was out.  "Aaaaaahh, screw it," I muttered as I backed up and then ran towards a really stupid idea.

I expected a solidly jammed door, and to have to ruin my collar bone a few times to get it open.  Lucky me.  It wasn't locked.  It hadn't even been completely shut.  And after bursting through the door, I went sprawling on my face, my weapon sliding into the shadows.

Blood began trickling down my nose but I couldn't stop to tend the wound.  I had to keep moving before Jodie tagged me.  Turning over, I saw a snubnose .38 Special hovering over my face with Jodie grinning triumphantly behind it.  She stepped on my right arm and moved the weapon over my nose.

In a greedy voice she said, "Bang.  You're dead."

The air went silent.  No breathing.  I could smell the sulfur from the .38.  Kevin had stopped complaining.  I could hear the dust settle between each heartbeat my panicked cardiovascular system pushed out.

"Dammit!" I exclaimed.  "That's another kill for you!  You're getting good at this."

"I practice."

"It shows.  How does best three out of five sound?"

"Sure."  Jodie got off my arm and reached down to help me up.  With practiced ease, she slipped her .38 into a shoulder holster.

"Ah-hah!  I knew it!  I just **_knew it_**!" Kevin screamed.  Jodie had stashed him behind a large crate, hands still tied and leg cuffed to a large metal grate, but he'd crawled out to get a view of what was happening.  "I knew you two weren't really trying to kill one another.  Well, not really _really trying to kill each other, babe.  Not like the time when you caught Angie and me… um… I mean, not really really __really trying to kill each other.  I mean, it's not like when you try to get me and I'm your boyfriend.  Hey, waitaminute.  Is Jodie your boyfriend?"_

"You know, it really wasn't a good idea on your part to bring Kevin into this," I said to Jodie.  "I mean, it didn't matter much to me whether or not he got his ticket punched – I just wish you hadn't let him whine all this time.  My eardrums are killing me enough as it is."

"What can I say?  I took a chance.  Nobody's perfect."  Jodie knew what I was talking about.  After all, she was the one who forgot the gag to keep Kevin quiet.

"Well, what say you untie me and we can do a threesome and forget this whole thing, okay?" Kevin grinned, eyes going wide with anticipation.

My eyes narrowed.  Jodie said, "What say we kill you now and end our misery for all days?"

"You got any live rounds for your .38?"

"I used them up earlier," she replied.

A light went off in Kevin's head.  It was actually closer to a flashbulb and usually lasted about as long, but this time he actually put 2 and 2 together to get 4.  "Oh, now I get it, babe.  This was another one of your assassin hunt games you and Jodie are always playing.  Heh-heh.  You had me going.  How about untying me already?"

Jodie and I looked at each other.  Then I looked back at Kevin.  How the hell could I have been attracted to him?  "I don't think so," I said simply.  For him, the simpler the better.

"You look really good in bracelets, Kevin," Jodie quipped.

I smiled at that as did she. 

Kevin didn't find it so funny.  "Laugh now, you gun-crazy babes, 'cause I hope kidnapping me helped your ratings.  Because you're going to need something to rely on when my mom and dad find out your friends are snatching me in the middle of the night, babe!  And I'm gonna see to it that you're never gonna do this again!  Maybe I'll finance the next episode of your assassin hunt.  Yeah!  Me and my dad'll… uh… where you put money to do something…

"… back it?" Jodie supplied.

"Yeah!  Back it!  And we'll make specific instructions to get you two out of the way fast.  Instead of starring roles, you'll end up like an extra!  C'mon, uncuff me already!  I've got phone calls to make!"

*** * * * ***

I could hear Kevin yelling for us to untie him as Jodie and I made our way down the pier.  "Hey!  Come on back, okay?!  C'mon, guys!  I was only joking!  Babes?!  You rats!  I'm not going to go out with either of you if it's the last thing I ever do!  Well, maybe **_after_** the Prom, Brittany!  Hey, you can't do this!  I'm the QB!!"

The pier had a surrealistic look to it, probably emanating from the burning buildings.  While we were inside fighting it out, several more warehouses, plus a ship, had managed to catch a stray spark and were now raging infernos.  Two of the warehouses had already fallen into the water.  I had to admit, Jodie had really outdone herself on this hunt.  It felt good to work with a fellow professional who knew the PR value of burning buildings.

The dock-cops were gone.  I wasn't sure whether they'd left voluntarily or involuntarily – there was a big hole burned into the dock where we'd left them.  If they went down, I hoped they knew how to swim.  Jodie couldn't have cared less.  Come to think of it, neither did I.

Jodie and I began making plans for our next assassin hunt while calmly slipping into the gathered crowd of gawkers.  Once the explosions started, other cops had moved to seal off our sections of the waterfront.  I resisted the childish urge to follow a firetruck.  Other people didn't, though, and were forcibly pushed back into the ranks of the idling idiots.  What a reporter wouldn't do to get a scoop.

I wondered if the game was worth all the trouble.

Jodie noticed my expressions and had me look at the commotion, the yelling firemen, the bumbling cops, the ashen faces of the by-standers.  And at Kevin's screaming visage as the flatfoots led him away.  "You guys can't do this!  I'm the QB I tell you!!  **_The QB!!_**"

Yes.  It was worth it.

*** * * * ***

I smiled at Jodie and she grinned in return as we moved further back into the alley.  We'd done a great job tonight.  Fires, explosions of any kind – exploding buildings, exploding cars, etc. – always brought in better ratings.  Even shooting overpaid dock-cops did wonders for the old image.

…creak…

Speaking of which…  "You boys want something?" I asked, turning around at the noise.  

Jodie casually mimicked my moves and we both turned around to see our two favorite dock-cops, slightly singed and fully drenched from a dip in the freezing water, moving towards us.  The smaller of the two pulled out a familiar looking piece of hardware.  

"Isn't that your .38, Brittany?" Jodie asked, recognizing it.

"Yeah.  I thought I lost it when you started the explosions."

The dock-cop clicked the hammer and then sighted down the barrel.  "It doesn't look too badly damaged," he finally said, all traces of redneck-ism gone.  "I found it under some debris.  Here you go," he said, gently letting the hammer down.  He confirmed that the weapon was unloaded and handed it over.

"Thanks," I replied, making a quick inspection of it and making sure the safety was on.

"You two did a fantastic job tonight," came a new voice from the shadows.  I looked over and a new figure approached, this one dressed in a 3-piece suit that screamed money.

"Hey, Finn," Jodie greeted.  "You get it all?"

"Every part.  This was pure gold tonight, ladies.  We're going to kill the competition with this episode."

"Yeah, yeah," I said.  "Just make sure you get my .38 back to my weapon's locker, okay?"  I tossed the weapon to Finn's waiting hands.  Jodie handed over her shoulder holster to one of the dock cops/actors.

"So what happens to Kevin?" I asked, notching a thumb at the crying QB in the back of a squad car.

"Oh, not much.  He'll be hauled into the local cop-shop where the detectives on the case will charge him with all the damages done in the last week, all the while sneering at him with "make-my-day" voices and facial expressions – hey, did I tell you?  Those Dirty Hairy movies are making a comeback this year.  We're thinking of doing some remakes.  You should invest in some studio stock while you can.  Anyway, the feds'll be called in and then, just in the nick of time, our Network lawyers will intervene and get him off the hook."

"Time frame?" I asked, not liking where this was going.

"About three weeks until trial and Mike and crew show up to get him off the hook."

"Not good enough," Jodie put in almost immediately.

"What do  you mean?" Jerry Finn asked cautiously.

"Look," Jodie began.  "We may have set up our contracts with you TV executives to foot all the damages while we hunt each other down for your ratings, but both Brittany and I know you have a certain grey area in the contract in regards to kidnapped siblings, friends or parents."

"And while Kevin may technically be my boyfriend," I inserted, "though God knows why, he is still the QB which has an impact on others I do consider my friends."

"So?" inquired Finn.

"So we have a big game this Friday night which he needs to be in since he is the QB and all that crap," I replied.  "Get him released and all charges dropped tonight or else."

"Or else what?"

"If you want me to do my VO work later this week, I can't have the distraction of not having the QB around and having to answer multiple questions as to where he is and why.  He needs to be out."  I looked Finn in the eye.  He caught my meaning.  I didn't give a rat's ass about Kevin but for some reason others did and I cared for those other people.

Finn sighed and pulled out a cell phone.  "I'll get him out, but it may not get done until the morning, Brittany.  Meanwhile, you do the VO without shooting any of the board operators, agreed?"

"Jerry," I smiled, scratching him a little on his slightly balding head, "have I ever let you down before?  And besides, I'm sure they learned their lesson after last time."

Finn shook his head and smiled anyway.  

"Say, um, Ms. Brittany," the smaller of the two dock-cops/a.k.a. actors said.  "Are you doing anything later on?  If not, maybe we could go out for a drink or something."

He wasn't too bad looking and certainly had a few more brain cells than Kevin did on his best day.  "I'm sorry, but I can't.  It's a school night and I have to get back home before my dad notices I'm gone.  But tell you what – give me a raincheck for another year until I graduate and you're on."  

He nodded his head and smiled.  "You're on," he said.

"You ready to go back undercover?" Jodie asked, breaking the light mood in the glow of burning buildings.

"No," I replied.  "I hate that character, but the length I'll go for a TV series.  Okay, give me a cue."

"Your name is Brittany.  Blond and perky.  Tell me you remember her," Jodie started.

I kept my eyes closed and felt the familiar slumber come on down.  "I remember her," I replied.  "I remember the mini skirts. I remember the Alamo.  I remember the Wizard of Oz.  Billy Barty, say it's ain't so – 'cause I sure as hell don't want to go. Brit's here, brain's there, let's get the show on the road.  Zimba zoomba."

I opened my eyes.  Where was I?  Or was that eye?  Hmmm.  I'll have to ask Daria about that.  I saw Jodie.  "Um, hi, Jodie.  What's going on?  Why're you in my house?"

"We're not at your house, Brittany.  We went on a walk, remember.  We went to find Kevin and we did.  See?  He's over there."

"Kevin?!  Oh, no!  Hey, why's my Kevin being put into that police car?"

"You caught him cheating on you, Brittany," Jodie replied calmly.  "And this time the cops came after him because of what he did to you."

I looked at her with what I could feel was a tremble on my lip.  "sniff Really?"

Jodie sighed.  "No, not really," she confessed.  "But it sounds better than saying he was in the right place at the wrong time, doesn't it?"  Hey, a positive spin could do wonders.

I sniffled again.  "I guess so.  Waitaminute.  How could he cheat on me?  Again?!  That rotten, lousy, no good…"

Jodie put a consoling arm around me and said, "I don't know, Brittany.  But my friend here will get a lawyer to look into it, okay?"

I sniffled again and looked at Jodie's friend with the cell phone.  "Really?" I asked hopefully.

Her friend with the cell phone looked at me seriously and replied, "Really.  After all, you have a big game this Friday."

"Hey, that's right!" I squeaked.  "I hope he's okay going to the big house and all until Friday.  You know, maybe if I go over there and explain to the cops that I'm not mad at him anymore…"

"Hey, Brittany – what happened to your hair?" Jodie quickly changed the subject.

"My hair?"  I grabbed a pigtail and sniffed it.  "Eeep!  That's not my conditioner!  Maybe _I've been cheating on Kevin.  Oh no!  Sob!  What'll I ever do?!"  I dropped my head on Jodie's shoulder._

"How about some cheese-fries?" Jodie offered.

"sob …no."

"And a milkshake?"

"sob, sob …no."

"With a real whipped-cream topping?"

"sob, sniff …no."

"I'll drive."

"Okay," I squeaked perkily.  

The End 

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                                       Discussion.  What conclusions can you draw from this story?  Mike?  Naomi?  Who is Brittany Taylor?

Naomi:                                    That's a harder question to answer than you think, Nick.  It's almost easier to tell you who she isn't.

Nick:                                       No problem.  Tell me who she isn't then.

Mike:                                      She wasn't a ditz.  She wasn't an airhead.

Naomi:                                    She wasn't trapped into conventional thinking.

Nick:                                       Those are concepts.  Can you give me something a little more concrete?

Mike:                                      On a hunch, I did a world-search on Assassin Hunt and was surprised when I got a match.  It appears that this was a reality-based program shown in Denmark, Norway, Sweden and Finland about the same time that Brittany was in High School.  It lasted almost two seasons when it was suddenly cancelled without reason.  My guess it wasn't a ratings winner and the TV execs got rid of it before losing any more money.  It never caught on in any other countries.

Naomi:                                    But what was interesting about it was that some of the highlight clips still exist now and they show someone looking very similar to Brittany.  But on the show she's simply known as Blue.

Bob:                                        That sounds familiar somehow.

Amy:                                      Quit with the crazy talk already, Bob.  You say that about everything

Mike:                                      I…

Naomi:                                    We.

Mike:                                      _We found that Brittany didn't go to college immediately after graduation and instead went to Hollywood.  She apparently impressed show producers enough to oust Vanna White from the Wheel of Fortune gig so she could be the show's new letter activator.  However, the show was soon cancelled anyway from dealing with too many lawsuits prompted by a rogue program that caused all letters to activate once Brittany touched one screen, allowing contestants to shout out answers at the same time and all wanting the prizes._

Naomi:                                    Around this time, Brittany apparently decided to go to college.  She enrolled at Cal Tech.  I thought this was simply so she could stay in California and work on her tan and try to get another TV show.  Imagine my surprise when she graduated five years later with a Doctorate in Physics when she apparently uncovered the relationship of stupidity to that of being lucky.

Jon:                                         "The stupider you are, the luckier you are."

Mike:                                      Exactly.  She coined the phrase over 40 years ago.

Rich:                                       I thought the phrase was older than that.

Mike:                                      It is.  But before she proved the relationship of stupidity to luck, it was only _believed to have existed, not really known.  Since her theory went public, she's gotten the recognition for it.  In fact, I was able to download a copy of her initial tests on this very subject thanks to the FOIA.  Nick, could you load it?_

Nick:                                       Loading… now.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

BEGIN VIDEO 

November 2008.

Location: Science lab at Cal Tech.  Time: afternoon.

Brittany, wearing a traditional white lab coat, her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, is securing Kevin Thompson into an electrical chair.  She puts multiple wires attached to round stickies on his exposed skin and head.  Kevin seems to be waking up.

Kevin:                                    Ooohhh, my head.  That kegger last night… (notices what's going on)  Um… What's going on, babe?

Brittany:                                 Quiet, Test Subject #1.

Kevin:                                    It's Kevin, babe.

She presses down with her thumb on a hand-held clicker, zapping him with electricity.

Kevin:                                    Aaaahhhh!

Brittany:                                 I won't tell you again, Test Subject #1.  Quiet.  Right.  Now that the test subject is securely strapped in place, it's time to begin the tests.

Kevin:                                    Who're you talking to, babe?

Brittany moves off camera and we see Kevin is firmly secure in the chair.  Outside light filters in through drawn shades in the lab.  There is no one else in the lab except those two.

Brittany (VO):                       Why, I'm talking to the evaluation board, Test Subject #1.  Now quiet.

Zzzzzaaaaapppp.

Kevin:                                    Aaaahhhh!

Brittany (VO):                       As you can see, the Test Subject is secure.  Next, we introduce the level of his stupidity.  Test Subject #1!  What is 2 times 2?

Kevin:                                    Is this some sort of trick question?

Zzzzzaaaaapppp.

Kevin:                                    Aaaahhhh!  Um… Moby Dick?

Brittany (VO):                       Nope.  Sorry.

Rrrrrrriiiiinnnng.

Brittany (VO):                       Hello?  Nope, sorry, he's in the middle of something right now.  Okay.  I'll let him know.  Bye.  Hey, Kevin?

Kevin:                                    Yeah?

Brittany (VO):                       Coach says you're starting QB now that Smith suddenly came down with food poisoning a few minutes ago.

Kevin:                                    Alright!  That's sure to impress Angela!

Brittany (VO):                       And who's Angela?

Kevin:                                    She's this really cute chick I've been trying to go out with but she only dates the starting QB.  But don't tell my girlfriend about it, okay?

Brittany (VO):                       And who's your girlfriend?

Kevin:                                    Brittany…

Brittany (VO):                       Wrong answer!!

Zzzzzaaaaapppp.

Kevin:                                    Aaaahhhh!

Zzzzzaaaaapppp.

Kevin:                                    Aaaahhhh!

Zzzzzaaaaapppp.

Kevin:                                    Aaaahhhh!

Rrrrrrriiiiinnnng.

Brittany (VO):                       What?!  Nope, sorry, he's still in the middle of something right now.  Fine.  I'll let him know.  Bye.  Kevin?

Kevin:                                    (whimpering) Yeah?

Brittany (VO):                       Weren't you supposed to pick up my laundry yesterday?

Kevin:                                    (whimpering) Yeah.

Brittany (VO):                       And I gave you money to pay for my dry cleaning, right?

Kevin:                                    (whimpering) Yeah.

Brittany (VO):                       And I told you that I needed those clothes for a very important function last night, right?

Kevin:                                    (whimpering) Yeah.

Brittany (VO):                       But you said you couldn't find the place yesterday, right?

Kevin:                                    (whimpering) Yeah.

Brittany (VO):                       Even though it is right next door to your dorm?

Kevin:                                    (whimpering) Yeah?

Brittany (VO):                       Did you buy a lottery ticket with my laundry money instead?

Kevin:                                    (whimpering) No.  I bought beer with it instead.

Brittany (VO):                       But you did buy a lottery ticket last night, didn't you?

Kevin:                                    (whimpering) Yeah.  I used my allowance from my mom.

Brittany (VO):                       Congratulations.  I lost out on landing a part in a Bond film while you got hammered with the rest of the team last night.  And you just won 26 million dollars.

Kevin:                                    I did?!  Cool!

Zzzzzaaaaapppp.

Kevin:                                    Aaaahhhh!

Kevin apparently passes out.

Brittany (VO):                       Hmmm.  Maybe I should refocus this test to Kevin's stupidity as it interacts with the luck factor instead of trying to program a moron to do the dangerous work for the CIA.  God knows the stupider Kevin is, the luckier he is.

**VIDEO ENDS**

Mike:                                      And as they say, the rest is history.  Brittany went on to publish her later findings and was recognized for her accomplishments when her video came out highlighting the stupid acts of Test Subject #1 – or Kevin Thompson – and the lucky consequences he had.  In fact, one of the best examples I saw was when Kevin was contacted by NASA…

Aaron:                                    Hey!  Don't ruin our reviews, Mike.  Kevin's on our list, not yours.

Mike:                                      Sorry.  Anyway, Brittany became famous for that, made some money and then vanished.

Nick:                                       Speculation?

Naomi:                                    Rumor has it the CIA wanted their initial grant money back and she had to go to work for them in order to pay it off.  Another has it the Air Force took her underground for other research projects they were working on and she's now at Area 51.  Another is she got some bad plastic surgery and went into hiding so she wouldn't have to show it in public.  Whatever "it" is.  But no one really knows for sure.

Mike:                                      Especially Kevin's lawyer who still has an outstanding lawsuit against her for defamation of character to his client, Test Subject… no, um, Kevin Thompson.  That's it.

Nick:                                       So now the question becomes: why did Brittany write that story?  Dan?

Dan:                                        I'm betting she saw that show in Europe and it was simply wishful thinking on her part.

Debbie:                                  That's not it.  She was acting our her frustration.

Nick:                                       Explain, Debbie.

Debbie:                                  Since she was a cheerleader, she was simply venting her frustration against her jock boyfriend.  The parts where she says he keeps cheating on her – ahh, all jocks are the same.  They all cheat.

Larissa:                                  Hey, I represent that!

Debbie:                                  I'm sure you do.

Laughter.

Geoff:                                     Just because she's on the varsity squad is no reason to say that.

Larissa thinks about her comment for a moment.

Larissa:                                  Hey, that's not what I meant.

Debbie:                                  Did you mean to say that she wasn't on the mark with her boyfriend's description?

Larissa:                                  Yes… no!  Quit trying to trick me.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Okay, class, settle down.

Larissa:                                  Mrs. Whitmore – can I have that conversation stricken from the class record?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    What's in it for me?

Larissa:                                  10?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    30.

Larissa:                                  15?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    30.

Larissa:                                  25?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    30.

Larissa:                                  Okay, okay.  Thirty it is.  Funds transferred… (she slides plastic card across slit in her desk) now.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Class computer, delete Larissa's comments of last five minutes, security AW165543-Dopey.  (To class) Now, who else has something they'd like to add?

Rose:                                      She wasn't stupid, we know that.  She went on to a post-grad degree in Physics as well as Biology.  So then why act clueless in high school?

Colin:                                      Maybe it wasn't an act.  Maybe she didn't care about her studies and simply went to school for social interaction.  Didn't Einstein flunk out at some point in his school years?

Naomi:                                    Or maybe the answer was at the end of the story.  Maybe that work of fiction wasn't so outlandish.  I got together with Nick over the weekend and ran a search for post-story comments.  This is what we found.  Nick?

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

BEGIN VIDEO 

December 2001.

Location: Lawndale High, hallways.  Time: morning.

Jane and Daria are standing at their lockers, chatting.

Jane:                                       So which lucky victim's work did you peruse last night?

Daria:                                      Brittany's.

Jane:                                       Lucky you.  So which romance novel did she plagiarize?

Daria:                                      Actually, none.  It was a very well thought out story.

Jane:                                       This the same Brittany we're talking about?

Daria:                                      Yes.

Jane:                                       Perky?  Blonde?  Couldn't write her way out of a traffic ticket if she needed to?

Daria:                                      She doesn't need to.  Not with her two friends and some healthy breathing to help her out.

Jane:                                       Daria!

Daria:                                      Sorry.  Her story just got me to wondering.

Just then, Brittany and Jodie walk by.  

Daria:                                      Brittany?  Do you have a minute?

Brittany:                                 If I do, then it's Kevin's fault!  I told him to wear protection!

Daria:                                      Um… okay.  I didn't want to know that.

Brittany:                                 (perky) Okay.  (begins to leave)

Jane:                                       Brittany, what Daria meant was do you have time to answer a question?

Brittany:                                 Boy, Daria, you sure have a weird way of asking a question.

Daria:                                      It's almost as if I'm speaking another language.

Brittany:                                 Wow.  You speak another language?  Like French?  My Kevvie speaks French.  At least, that's what he told me… hey, wait a minute.  You don't speak French, do you?

Daria:                                      Non, mais je parle espanol.

Jodie:                                      What do you need, Daria?

Daria:                                      I just got done reading Brittany's story for the Time Capsule.

Brittany:                                 Eeep!  We're not being graded on those, are we?

Daria:                                      No.  But Brittany, I wanted to ask you what you meant by it.

Brittany:                                 Um.  That Kevin's romantic?

Daria:                                      I don't think that was mentioned anywhere in the story, Brittany.

Brittany:                                 Um, Daria… Can you keep a secret?

Jane:                                       You mean like you and Kevin making out in the backseat of his car last Friday night?

Brittany:                                 Yeah.  Hey!  How'd you know about that?

Jane:                                       Know about what?

Daria:                                      Brittany?  Me keep secret.  You betchum.

Brittany:                                 Um, okay.  Anyway, Daria, I didn't write the story.

Daria:                                      Then who did?

Brittany:                                 I think it was my brother.  I was working on it one night last week but I fell asleep and the next thing I knew when I woke up the next morning was that it was done.  You won't tell anyone, will you?

Daria:                                      Your secret is safe with me, Brittany.  No one will ever know.

Jane:                                       Know what?  See?  It's working already, Brittany.

Brittany:                                 (relieved)  Whew.  That's a load off my chest.

Daria:                                      (to Jane) Now if she could just get rid of that other load off her chest.

Brittany and Jodie begin to walk away.

Daria:                                      After all, how good is a self-hypnotic command like Zimba Zoom…

Jodie suddenly pushes Daria against the locker and covers her mouth with her other free hand.

Jodie:                                      Don't…

Jane looks towards Brittany whose face has changed a bit.  Her eyes narrow as Kevin walks by.

Kevin:                                    Hey, babe.

Kevin continues walking by with his friends as they clown around with a football.  Brittany makes like she has a gun in her hand and is targeting for a shot.

**VIDEO ENDS**

Nick:                                       So what was in her time capsule?

Mike:                                      A set of pom-poms.  Strangely enough, there was also a digital watch in there.  And the handles on the pom-poms were hollow.  A chemical analysis revealed trace elements of gunpowder.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    So why do _you think she wrote it?  _

Naomi:                                    I don't think it was simply Brittany writing this.  I think it was her alter-ego wanting to express itself.

Nick:                                       I'll go with that.  Good job, you two.  Okay, who's up next?

Two students raise their hands.

Nick:                                       Bridget – Colin?  You two volunteering?  Good enough.  

_NEXT:                                   Tiffany's story: Screams In The Night_

Contact me if you want:

jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).  

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed.  Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you.  A coincidence!   To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real.  Or could it?  I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	4. Tiffany's Story Screams In The Night

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!**

**Location: Lawndale hallway.  **

**Time: Now.**

Mrs. Whitmore:                    I can't believe you bluffed your way into that club, Nicholas.  (she shakes her head)  Then what did you do?

Nick:                                       I zipped some footage, completed my research and then got the hell out before the cops showed up.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    How'd you know the cops would show?

Nick:                                       Who do you think called them?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    You're going to get caught one day.

Nick:                                       Maybe.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    (chuckles) So how's all the archive research coming along?

Nick:                                       Not too bad.  I'm impressed that I've been contacted by just about everyone in class to do some research into the Li videobase for security footage on their assignments.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Almost everyone?

Nick:                                       Yeah, there's still a couple that haven't called me yet.  Maybe they know something I don't or have access that I'm unaware of.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Or they're just plain lazy.  We'll see.

(They enter a classroom.)

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

(The class is quiet, watching something on the video-blackboard.  The bell rings as Nick and Mrs. Whitmore enter.  They look up and see the figures of Colin and Bob engaged in vid-war, each wearing battle armor and zapping lasers and anti-personnel grenades at one another in a futuristic post-nuclear setting, only to miss as they appear to leap 400 feet out of the way from each blast.  Both Colin and Bob are sitting at their desks, wearing sensory-depravation visors/ear plugs/gloves/boots – as well as grins as they try to annihilate one another.  Both are surrounded by a neural-grid and are electrified to discourage external interference.)

(Mrs. Whitmore looks at Nick who shrugs.  Mrs. Whitmore then motions for the rest of the class to remain silent as she takes her seat at her desk.  Nick sits down at his desk.  Mrs. Whitmore then pulls out and inserts her keyboard into her desk and types something.  Within moments a little red round sphere shows up in the upper corner of the video-blackboard.  As soon as it touches part of the background, it becomes two little round spheres of color on the videoboard which soon become four, then eight and so on.  Wherever the spheres touch, the game background loses consistency and goes transparent and then blanks out to a black nothing.  The two combatants avoid the spheres and quit shooting at one another.  Soon enough, they are surrounded and the spheres begin to head towards them.)

(Colin considers shooting the spheres but then puts his lasers back in their holsters and clicks on his arm band to exit the game.  A moment later with red, green, yellow, blue and pink spheres closing in on him, Bob leaves the game as well.)

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Bob.  Colin.  Nice to see  you again.  There's still something of value in the old classics don't you think?

Bob:                                        What do you mean?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    I just ran a modified screen saver against your game.

Bob:                                        But it destroyed everything it touched.  I spent weeks getting into a game site to download it.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    What can I say?  You play on my time, you play by my rules.  And that means my virus programs get the chance to whack your anit-V's out.

Bob:                                        But you could've caused a feedback through the sense-line.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Nasty headache.  But you'd learn.

Bob:                                        But that's not fair.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    See.  You're learning already.  And here I thought you weren't taking Real Life 406 until next year.  You've got a head start.  Free of charge.

Bob:                                        Free…?

Colin:                                      Let it go, Bob.

Bob:                                        But…

Nick:                                       Bob.  You accessed the desknet during school hours.

Bob:                                        I'd permissible.

Nick:                                       Not for private non-school use utilizing a non-filtered beta-game.  Subsection 3, paragraph 32.  You could've been suspended.  She's letting  you off easy.  Don't look the Trojan in the mouth.

Bob:                                        But…

Nick:                                       Colin, Bridget.  Your presentation, please.

Screams In The Night 

**by Tiffany Blum-Deckler **

(transcribed by Steven A. Brown)

The moonlight slapped the side of the barn with a silver glow, stumbling over the cracks and splits on the wooden walls.  That probably wouldn't have happened if someone had applied moisturizer now and again.  The only other light piercing the barn's hide was the glitter of stars shinning through the hole in the roof above.

The place was perfect, or so Mr. O'Neill had thought at the time. It was isolated, quiet and supposed to withstand the approaching beast.  Of course, there wasn't any light in there which was probably for the best as I didn't want to see Mr. O'Neill cry.  Like, not any _more._

In the distance, a creature, howled its presence.  "Hooooooowwwwlll!!"  Closer, a second one replied in kind with two short grunts, acknowledging its whereabouts.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Oh, God, Tiffany!"  He almost cried, strengthening his hold on my arm.  "It's still out there!  Make it go away!  Do something!"

The barn wasn't all that sturdy, so it was only a matter of time before it fell in on us.  That would be bad.  I had only just bought my dress this afternoon.  I didn't want to get it dirty.  

"Um, Mr. O'Neill?  Could you let go of my arm?  This isn't the right place for that kind of thing, you know?"  I don't think he knew.  But he let go of my arm and I could vaguely see his shape curl around a support column.

Why did this have to happen to us?  How could it have happened?  

There was a full moon out tonight, and from the light I caught glimpses of the creature.  It was over six feet tall rippling with muscles under a furry body and walked with an awkward gait on two legs.  It snarled constantly so it wasn't hard seeing dozens of flesh-ripping teeth complemented by two beady eyes.

I'd heard the legends of how ordinary people were turned into these flesh-eating creatures, but I never believed them.  Where did this one come from?  And didn't it know that eating red meat was so last year?

So then Mr. O'Neill said/blubbered, "Oh, my Janet.  Wherefore art thou, my Janet?  You could save me."  

I just couldn't look at him anymore.  He was too much a fashion violation.

The day had started like every other day for the past three years.  I woke up from my parent's dog licking my face.  Ugh.  Dog breath.  Then I got up and put him outside so I could go get ready for school.  I then got ready for school.  Then I went downstairs and had breakfast – toast, tea, my vitamins and other capsules, and my one vicky… no, viagr… no, let's see – what was that word… oh, yeah, vice.  I grabbed a stick of gum.  With sugar on it.  Mmmmmm.

I then went to school.  It was always the same.  Go to class, sit in class, listen to classroom noise and think about what to do after school.  Read Waif or go to Cashman's?  Ooohh, it made my head hurt sometimes to think about which to do.

Only today was different.

I didn't have to think about after school.  Ms. Li thought of it for everyone.

I was in science class with Sandi, Quinn, Stacy and a lot of other somebodies.  Ms. Barch was saying something.  It seemed kind of familiar but I wasn't sure why.

So then Ms. Barch said, "… and as you can see, it's the MALE version of sunlight that causes skin cancer.  Just like it's always a MALE that causes problems to females…"

So then a somebody said, "Um… Ms. Barch?  I don't think sunlight is categorized as male or female…"

So then Ms. Barch said, "That's typical MALE behavior there, Martin.  But I'll overlook it for now since you've just volunteered to assist me in out next experiment."

Oh, right.  It was a male somebody.

So then the male somebody named Martin said, "Um… I didn't volun…"

So then Ms. Barch said, "Quiet, you MALE and get up here.  Now hold this wire.  Girls, I want you to see what happens to the human nervous system when you touch a live wire.  You!  Male!  Get back here!  Hold that wire.  It's not active.  Yet.  You see, girls, once I flip this switch…"

But then Ms. Li came in the classroom and gave an announcement in an announcy kind of voice.  She always did that.  I didn't mind – at least it got the other voices in my head to keep quiet for a bit.

So then Ms. Li said, "Goooood morning, students!  Goooood news!  We have received permission from the superintendent to go to a star gazing outing tonight…"

So then Quinn asked, "Why tonight?"

So then Ms. Li said, "What?"

So then Quinn said, "Why tonight?  Why not during the day when we could easily go to the planetarium and miss out on other classes?"  That was Quinn for you.  She was always smart trying to get us out of class or additional homework.

So then Sandi said, "Gee, Quinn, I wish I had thought of that.  Maybe you blah blah blah."  I kind of lost interest in what she said.  It must not have been very important.

So then Ms. Li said, "Because we are NOT going to the planetarium, Miss Morgendorffer.  Why look at fake stars and constellations when you could see the real thing at night?"

So then Quinn said, "Another budget crunch, eh?"

So then Ms. Li said, "Uh… er… ah, okay then.  We will all meet here tonight at 8pm to go to Wild Bill's Telescopes Rentals and see real stars tonight!  And better yet, you will be going with students who did this last year to help you make out the constellations."

Make out.  That sounded a lot like make up.  I was running a little low on base powder.  I knew I needed to tell Stacy so she could make a note of it for later.

So then Ms. Barch said, "I can't make it tonight."

So then Ms. Li said, "I'm sure it's not anything you can't reschedule…"

So then Ms. Barch said, "I'm meeting with my lawyer."

So then Ms. Li said, "And I'm sure Mr. O'Neill will be happy to take your place then."

So then Ms. Barch seemed to want to say something but didn't.

So then Stacy asked, "Do we need permission slips?"

So then Ms. Li said, "Of course you do.  But don't worry – I've got copies from the last trip we didn't take and have successfully changed the destination on it to match tonight's.  Participation is mandatory.  And make sure to bring some spending money as those telescope rentals don't come cheap.  That is all.  Resume learning."

And then she left.  She was always leaving like that.  Well, a few minutes later the voices resumed in my head.  It was time to do my mental exercises.  One plus one was two.  One plus two was three.  One plus three was four.

  
But then Sandi said, "Tiffany?!  Are you going to Cashman's later with us or not?"

Oh darn.  I lost track.  So I said, "Yeah."  It was a good answer.  Darn voices again.  One plus one was two…

So then a voice said, "Aaaaaaiiiiieeeeeee!!"

  
So then Ms. Barch said, "Be quiet, you MALE!"

*************

Then came lunch.  It was at school.  That was sooooo wrong.

Sandi and Quinn and Stacy were waiting in line.  I got a diet soda out of the machine that accepts coins for cans or something like that.  It was good soda.  It hardly had any taste at all.  Taste caused fat.  I'm sure of it.  I should know.  I was fat once.  I don't want to go through that again.

Lunch was the same.  The voices usually got louder and I was getting better at ignoring them.  Still, I took my vitamins and other dietary supplements with my soda.  Eeewwwww.  Someone forgot to tell Quinn's sister that today was a non-green day.  

I sat down and began eating my lunch.  Stacy, Sandi and Quinn also sat down and we ate.  It was nice.  Then the voices started up.  Something about winning a football game this weekend.  It was weird.  Why would anyone want to put a ball on their foot?

Then came classes in the afternoon and the voices finally stopped in Mr. DeMartino's class.  Actually, I did hear one voice saying blah gun blah grenade blah combat or something but all I could do was watch Mr. DeMartino's fashion crisis and cringe.  His tie was so not with his shoes.  The only good contrast he gave was when his eye bulged out.  The red veins matched his socks so that was okay.

Later Sandi, Quinn, Stacy and myself all went to Cashman's.  It was okay.  They had a new dress.  I could see myself in one of them if I wasn't fat.  I asked Quinn if I would look fat in one but she said no.  She always said that.  I'm not sure I can trust her judgment of my shape any longer.  Sandi would tell me.

Then came dinner which was better avoided as it involved my parents, their dog panting all over my dress and more supplements.  Plus a salad.  I skipped the dressing as it was too fattening.

My mom asked, "Wah wah wah wah wah wah?" 

"Yes, mom.  I took my pills."

So then my dad asked, "Wah wah wah wah wah wah?"

"Yes, dad.  Zachary got his filet as you instructed."  

So my dad said, "Wah wah wah wah wah wah, wah, wah, wah, wah."

"Yes, dad.  His coat is getting shiny.  You should win this time."  Zachary was the dog.  "I have to go to a school function tonight.  Can I have some money?"

So my mom asked, "Wah wah wah wah wah wah?" 

"I think it's for microscope rentals or something."

So my mom asked, "Wah wah wah wah wah wah?" 

"Yes, you did sign a permission slip.  Ms. Li said she has one from all the parents."

So my dad said, "Wah wah wah wah wah wah, wah, wah, wah, wah."

"Eeeewwwww.  Dad, that's so gross.  You know I don't take Zachary out for a walk after he's eaten because of that reason."

*************

I had met Sandi, Quinn and Stacy at school.  They were wearing very fashionable clothes.  Not like any of the other riders on the bus.  Especially Quinn's sister who still wore that green jacket.  

So then Ms. Li said, "Okay, young people.  Let's load up on the bus.  You'll be assigned a partner once we've gotten to Wild Bill's Telescope Rentals.  Speaking of which, you all remembered to bring your rental money, correct?  Good, good.  Nothing like a little kickbac… I mean nothing like your fine school spirit helping to support after school activities.  Keep in mind that you'll be graded on your ability to find star constellations.  That is all.  Resume vacant stares."

I sat with Sandi near the back of the bus as that was where the popular kids sat.  I don't understand why.  Maybe it had something to do with being the furthest away from Mr. O'Neill.  I guess it didn't matter.  We were the popular ones so we sat where it was popular.

The bus started and I could swear I recognized the bus driver from somewhere but I couldn't put my finger on it.  It was on the tip of my tongue.  We pulled out of the parking lot and got on the road.  It was nearly dark as we started.  A couple minutes into the trip the voices in my head started making more racket than a few minutes earlier.  Some of the voices asked questions.

So then a voice asked, "Um, Ms. Li?  Are we there yet?"

So then Ms. Li said, "No."

So then another voice asked, "How about now?"

So then Ms. Li said, "No."

And some of the voices, ones I recognized, asked other questions.

So then Joey said, "Quinn, can I be your telescope partner?"

So then Jamie said, "Don't listen to him, Quinn.  Can I be your telescope partner?  I can find stars easier than him."

So then Jeffy said, "Don't listen to him either, Quinn.  Be my telescope partner."

So then Quinn said, "Guys, guys.  I can't be expected to pick out my telescope partner on such short notice.  Give me time.  I'll think it over.  Of course if I had a soda I could think things over a little easier."

So then Joey said, "I'll find you a soda."

So then Jamie said, "How?  We're on a bus, you moron."

  
So then Joey said, "Who's a moron, you moron!"

So then Jeffy said, "Hey, Kevin, do you have a soda?"

I was sitting next to Sandi.  I remembered when boys used to do that kind of thing for Sandi and I'd get a little of the leftover gratitude from them as well.  I really missed those days.  Becoming more fashion conscientious hasn't replaced those good old days.  Sometimes I think guys couldn't see fashion even if it was in front of their nose.

A few rows in front of us, Quinn's sister, um, Darreen - no, Darla - no, Daria!  That was it.  She got up along with her friend, that Jane-girl and walked back towards us.

So then Daria said, "Quinn, do you have any idea why Joey, Jeffy or Jamie came up to me and asked if I had a soda they could borrow?"

So then Quinn said, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Daria."

So then Daria said, "Yeah, right.  Anyway since you're all fresh meat on this assignment…"

So then Sandi said, "What?"

So then that Jane-girl said, "You know, fresh meat.  Newbies.  You don't know what the hell is going on."

So then Stacy said, "What?"

So then Daria said, "It's like this, see.  As you know we have a full moon tonight.  That means we'll be counting on you to sacrifice yourselves for us once the plethora of supernatural beings that come out during times like this decide to pounce.  As is, we're anticipating at least one of us won't be coming back tonight."

So then that Jane-girl said, "At least, not in one piece."

So then Sandi said, "What?"

So then that Jane-girl said, "You know, werewolves, vampires, that sort of thing.  If we were across the state line then it would be our responsibility to keep you safe but since we're here, it's your responsibility to keep us safe."

So then Stacy said, "You're just trying to scare us.  There's no such thing as werewolves or vampires."

Hey, they were trying to scare us.  I've seen Scared Straight.  Straight.  George Straight.  He looks good in jeans.  Not many people could pull it off but he can.  But that cowboy hat… it has to go.  It's so… 90's.

So then Daria said, "Sure I'm trying to scare you.  You keep telling yourself that and you just might believe it."

So then Quinn said, "Oh, ha, ha, Daria.  Can you go and sit down now?"

So then Daria said, "Sure, but have any of you given any thought as to who you want to partner up with on this assignment?"

So then Sandi said, "I'm sure we'll be perfectly fine on our own, thank you very much."

So then Daria said, "No problem.  But remember not to stray too far outside of Wild Bill's lighting area.  You wouldn't want to…"

So then that Jane-girl said, "Daria!  You said you weren't going to bring that up again."

So then Daria said, "Jane, they have a right to know."

So then that Jane-girl said, "Look, it was never confirmed.  They never found her body.  For all anyone knows, she just took off and wasn't eaten by a wild ani…"

So then Daria said, "Sssshhhhh.  Not so loud.  You don't want Kevin to freak out again.  Not like last year."

Kevin, who was sitting in front of me turned around.

So then Kevin said, "What are you guys talking about?  I didn't freak out last year.  I got all the constellations right.  Orion's boot.  The Taurus dipper."

So then Brittany said, "Isn't that what your mom drives?"

So then Kevin said, "Oh, ho, ho, ho, good one, babe.  No.  She drives a two-door."

So then that Jane-girl said, "You remember, Kevin.  When your partner came up missing on the bus ride back last year.  Some said you were to blame for her disappearance."

So then Brittany said, "Kevvie!"

So then Kevin said, "Uh.  Oh, yeah.  That's right.  But it wasn't my fault.  She must have gotten on another bus is all."

So then that Jane-girl said, "There was only one bus last year like there's one bus this year, Kevin.  Now did  you or did you not kiss her?!  We have ways of making  you talk, you know."

So then Brittany said, "Kevvie!!"

So then Kevin said, "I don't know what you're talking about.  Um… you can't rattle me.  Yeah.  That's right.  I'm the QB.  Nothing rattles me.  I'm cool under fire.  I don't know what you're talking about."

So then Daria said, "Oh yeah?  What about when… whisper, whisper, whisper."

So then Kevin said, "Aaaaaaahhhhh!  Oh god!  Not again.  I thought I'd forgotten that.  Boo-hoo-hoo!  Why?!  Why does God hate me like this?!"

Kevin turned around and slumped in his seat, that Brittany person near him patting him on the back with a "there, there," or something.  I sort of lost interest and quit listening.

Daria and that Jane-girl went and sat down again.  As they walked away I heard them say something.

So then that Jane-girl said, "That was almost too easy with Kevin."

So then Daria said, "Like shooting fish in a barrel."

So then that Jane-girl said, "Stupid fish.  Makes you wonder how they got in the barrel in the first place."

So then Daria said, "Not really."

Joey, Jeffy and Jamie, who had returned to their seats by now, started mumbling nervously to one another.  So did Quinn, Stacy and Sandi.  I don't know what the big deal was.  All Quinn's sister said to Kevin was that she had heard that the NFL was going on strike again and that the superbowl was going to be canceled as a result, leaving room for a three hour marathon session of in-depth makeover tips.  That was a good thing.  Not a bad thing.  Oh well.  Sandi would figure out what to do.  And then maybe some of those voices will get a little softer and I can go back to thinking of important matters.  Makeup inventory.

Then it hit me.  I looked at that Daria and her friend.  They were smiling in a weird kind of way.  Like, when Sandi smiles.  That was frightening.  Or it would have been if I hadn't stayed up late the other night watching the horror network play Howling I – III.  It was classic foreshadowing.  They knew something.  Someone was going to die.  Bummer.  Too bad someone had to die.  It wouldn't be Daria, though, as the pretty ones (even the makeup-impaired ones) were usually saved for last.  It was usually the "mean" pretty ones who were the first to go.  That made Sandi a prime target.  

"Quinn?  Would you mind switching seats with me?  I need to talk with Stacy for uhhhh…."  Drat.  What was that word I was looking for?  Where a psycho would feel compassion towards you and let you go.  Hmmm.  

So Quinn said, "Weight advice?"

Close enough.  "Yeah," I said.  I scooted over to a new seat.  Stacy had a much better survival rating.

A few minutes later all hell broke loose.

Sandi broke a nail.

*************

The bus stopped a few minutes later not from Sandi breaking a nail but from the cause of what caused her to break a nail.  A car had crossed a double yellow line to get around the bus and had almost gotten hit head-on for it.  The driver managed to save his car by swerving in front of the bus which caused the bus driver to swerve so he wouldn't hit the car.  The resulting swerving of the bus not only caused Sandi to break a nail but also caused the engine to stop working on the bus.  It must've had a seizure.

So then the bus driver said, "Of all the IDIOTIC, MORONIC driving, IF YOU COULD CALL IT THAT!  I bet even KEVIN wouldn't have DONE THAT bad!"

So then Kevin said, "Hey, thanks Mr. D.!"

The bus driver's speech pattern was familiar.  I know I'd heard that voice before.  If only all these other voices weren't going on and on in my ears.

So then Ms. Li said, "Okay, young people.  Off the bus and stretch your legs.  That's it.  Off you go.  You too, Miss Morgendorffer."

We all got off the bus and walked on some unsanitary dirt.  The bus driver had pulled over to the shoulder and was trying to get the bus restarted.  The bus didn't sound like it wanted to get moving.  I knew that feeling.

So then the bus driver said, "C'mon, start you lousy good for nothing piece of… bloody… if only I'd rammed…"

So then Ms. Li said, "What's the verdict, Mr. DeMartino?"

DeMartino!  No wonder he seemed so familiar.  He must've been related to my history teacher.  I think.

Do then Mr. DeMartino said, "It won't start."

So then Ms. Li said, "I can see that."

Do then Mr. DeMartino said, "Good.  Now can you TELL ME why I ever LEFT the service to become a TEACHER?!  All I EVER seem to do is work on either NON-RESPONSIVE STUDENTS or non-responsive buses.  Where's the regular bus driver ANYWAY?"

So then Ms. Li said, "Never mind that, just get that bus working.  (softer) Lousy union concessions… If only I could have… (louder) Okay, how much time are we looking at?"

Do then Mr. DeMartino said, "Radio in for another bus, you're looking at another hour.  During which I'll probably figure out what the heck's gone wrong with the engine and fix it.  You're call."

So then Ms. Li said, "Fix it.  In the meantime… (much louder) Okay, people, we're only a few miles from Wild Bill's so we'll have to hike the last bit.  Once Mr. DeMartino here has fixed the bus he'll meet us up there for the ride back.  Any questions?"

So then some nameless student said, "What if we don't want to go hiking in the woods in the middle of the night?"

So then Ms. Li said, "Then you'll get failing grades on this project."

So then the nameless student said, "Better failing grades then to break your neck or get attacked by wild animals."

So then another nameless student said, "That goes for me too.  I'm not going, not after hearing the rumors of wild animals attacking people in the woods."

So then Ms. Li said, "Those wild animals died out over a hundred years ago, young people!"

So then the first nameless student said, "Doesn't matter.  They're probably just hiding and waiting for us to let our guard down so they can pounce on us when we're least expecting it."

Do then Mr. DeMartino said, "I know what that feels like."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Ms. Li, maybe we should leave some of the more sensitive ones behind to help Anthony get the bus running.  I'm sure they'll make it to the telescope site in plenty of time."

So then Ms. Li said, "Fine.  Who here has the guts to go for a night hike up a mysterious mountain?"

Of course no one raised a hand.

So then Ms. Li said, "Fine.  Who here has the guts to go for a night hide up a mysterious mountain with a guaranteed "B" no matter what?  And you'll still get an "A" if you get the constellations right."

A minute later about 20 hands were up in the air.  A "B"!  That would be my first of the year!

So then Ms. Li said, "Better.  Okay, Timothy, let's get them going."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Um, I thought it might be better if I…"

So then Ms. Li said, "You thought wrong, mister!  Just think of one thing as you march up this mountain: tenure."

So that was how 20 students and two teachers began hiking up a mountain trail at night, with a full moon out.  Surprisingly Quinn's sister and her friend also came along.  I'm not sure why.  I'm pretty sure I heard something about a "mom bribe" but I don't think I heard that correctly considering there were plenty of other voices yakking up a storm in my head.  Maybe she meant "mom bride" but why would her mother be a bride?  Oh.  Divorce and remarriage.  I had seen that before.

So then Ms. Li said, "Okay, people.  We're going to head up this trail towards Wild Bill's Telescope Rentals.  It's only four or five miles, so no bellyaching back there.  That means you, Miss Morgendorffer."

I thought I heard some grumbling behind me but there was only that Jane-girl and Quinn's sister.  I looked over at Quinn.  She wasn't grumbling.  She was saying something to Stacy.  I hoped it wasn't about how my dress made me look fat.  The complains started anyway.  At least that's what the voices I heard in my head seemed to be saying.  I didn't mind the walk.  It was easier to take long walks without having a dog on the leash that wanted to go everywhere, sniff everything or leave it's body fluids (ewww) on just about everything.  About five minutes into the walk some of the guys ahead of us rushed back to chat with us.

No, wait.  Chat with Quinn.

So then Joey said, "Quinn, blah blah blah?"

So then Jeffy said, "No, Quinn, blah blah blah?"

So then Jamie said, "Don't listen to him, Quinn.  Blah blah blah?"

So then Quinn said, "Guys, I really don't think blah blah blah."  This sounded somewhat familiar so I lost interest.  I'm sure it was the same thing she always said.  It sounded like the same thing they always said.

I wish they made a fuss over me that way.

I was walking slightly behind Quinn, with Stacy and Sandi ahead of her.  Behind me was Quinn's sister, Daria, that Jane-girl and a couple other nameless kids who I didn't find out their names since if they didn't have a name then their survival rating was way down and would be mountain lion food before too long.  It was kind of like someone wearing a red shirt on Star Trek – certain death.  Only with fewer fashion violations.

So then that Jane-girl said, "Look at the full moon.  Makes you wonder doesn't it?"

So then Daria said, "Wonder about if we have sufficient light so we don't misstep and fall down a ravine and break our necks?"

So then that Jane-girl said, "Well I was going to say it makes you wonder if we're alone in the forest or if there are any carnivorous beasts laying in wait or already stalking us but yours is much more upbeat."

So then Lech said, "A fine night for a walk isn't it, ladies?"

So then Daria said, "Speaking of carnivorous beasts.  Get lost, Upchuck."

Oh, right.  Upchuck.  I always get his name confused.  He has a lot of them.  Everyone calls him something different.  It must be nice to have a lot of nicknames.

So then Lech, I mean, Upchuck said, "Grrowwl, feisty.  You know, my precious ladies, if you are afraid of the dark I could lend you my escort services."

So then that Jane-girl said, "In your dreams."

So then Daria said, "Don't get him started, Jane.  I don't want to hear about it."

So then Upchuck said, "Are you sure….?"

So then that Jane-girl said, "I'd rather be eaten by ravenous army ants."

So then Upchuck said, "Now my feisty Jane, there aren't any army ants…."

So then Daria said, "Then what do you call those things crawling up your pants?"

So then Upchuck said, "Eeeeekkk!  Get 'em off, get 'em off!"

So then Daria said, "I hear rolling around on the ground can crush them before they start biting your flesh into shreds."

Upchuck dropped and rolled on the ground.

So then that Jane-girl said, "You're not putting your heart into it, Upchuck!  There's more than ever!  Roll faster!  Faster!  Move it, move it!"

Upchuck rolled over and over and over and kind of fell down an incline.

So then Upchuck said, "…eeeeeiiii……."  The sound became fainter.

So then Daria said, "Have you thought of becoming a drill instructor, Jane?"

So then that Jane-girl said, "You wish."

So then Daria said, "C'mon, be one of the few, the proud."

So then that Jane-girl said, "Can I order you to take a certain musician out on a date?"

So then Daria said, "You wish."

I liked listening to their voices.  It wasn't the same as most of the other voices I normally heard in my head.  They actually made sense.  Some of the time.  When I could follow what they were saying.  Which was only some of the time.

Ms. Li came back to investigate what all the noise was that Lech, I mean, Upchuck made.

So then Daria said, "Upchuck fall down, go boom."

So then Ms. Li said, "And just what caused him to fall down?"

"Army ants," I said.

So then Ms. Li said, "…grumble… lousy kids….  Alright.  Remain here and remain calm.  I will deal with the situation as a trained administrative professional.  Mr. O'Neill, you're in charge until I get back.  Mr. Thompson, you'll come with me."

So then Kevin said, "Why me?  I'm the QB.  You don't want to risk losing me to vampire werewolves do you?"

So then Ms. Li said, "What are you talking about, young man?"

So then Daria said, "Does anyone ever really know?"

So then Ms. Li said, "Good point, Miss Morgendorffer.  Mr. Thompson, you're coming with me and that's final."

So then Kevin said, "But…"

So then Daria said, "Maybe there's pro scouts down there, Kevin."

So then Kevin said, "Hey, yeah!  Okay, Ms. … uh…"

So then Daria said, "Li.  One syllable."

So then Kevin said, "Oh yeah!  Ms. One Syllable.  I'm the QB.  I'll do it."

So off they went.

So then that Jane-girl said, "You're really evil, you know that?"

So then Daria said, "I do what I can."

I didn't like the looks of this.  It was how every reported account started.  First the thingie or psycho divides the group and then starts stalking each one, killing them.  I needed to stay close to Stacy.  She was cute and vulnerable meaning she held a good survival rating.  No one would kill her until she was the last one left.

We stood around for about five more minutes before Kevin came running back up towards us.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Kevin, what is it?  Where's Angela?"

So then Kevin said, "…sniffle, sob… It was horrible, man!  Horrible!"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "What was?  Get ahold of yourself!"

So then that Jane-girl said, "You want me to slap him around some?"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "I don't think that will help him, Jane."

So then that Jane-girl said, "Who said anything about it helping _him?"_

So then Kevin said, "We… we were going down towards where the pro scouts were when I got distracted for a moment.  I turned my head only for a moment and the next Ms. Li was gone."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "So you ran back up here, is that it?"

So then Kevin said, "No.  I'm the QB, remember?  I have duties not every kid in high school has."

So then Daria said, "Do these duties include drinking massive amounts of beer?"

So then Kevin said, "Yeah!  Anyway, I knew I had to find her.  So I went forward another hundred feet or so when I stepped into something.  I looked down and there was blood and bones everywhere!  It was gruesome!  And a few feet further was Ms. One Syllable's severed head lying near some bushes.  Oh god, it was horrible!"

Sandi, Stacy, Quinn and I gasped.  It was horrible alright.  No automatic B on this assignment.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "So that's when you ran back up, right?"

So then Daria said, "I bet that's not the first thing he did."

So then that Jane-girl said, "I don't want to take that bet.  Nor would I want to do his laundry."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Okay, everyone, this has certainly put a damper on tonight's festivities…"

"Killings usually do that," I said.  Everyone looked at me.  "What?"  I wasn't saying anything that wasn't already obvious.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "…um… okay.  Anyway, what we're going to do next is band together and hurry up to Wild Bill's where I'm sure he has a telephone so we can call for help."

So then Daria said, "Have you ever been to Wild Bill's Telescope Rentals?"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "No, but how hard can it be to find?  All we have to do is ask the first bear in blue jeans wearing a hat and holding a shovel we come across for directions."

So then Quinn said, "Oh, god.  We're all going to die."

So then Sandi said, "Quinn, like, get ahold of yourself already."

So then that Jane-girl said, "Do you want me to slap her around for you?"

So then Sandi said, "She might need it."

So then Quinn said, "How's that going to help me?"

So then Sandi said, "Who said anything about it helping _you?"_

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Okay, everyone.  I'll take… um… the first position…"

So then Daria said, "Point."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "…um… okay.  Anyway, I'll take the first position and everyone else should stay calm and follow closely behind me.  I'll get us out of here.  Don't you worry.  In fact, turn those frowns upside down and we'll make an adventure out of it."

Sandi, Quinn, Stacy, Jodie, Mack, Brittany, Kevin, Joey, Jeffy, Jamie, that Jane-girl, Andrea the other nameless kids and myself all turned from Mr. O'Neill towards Daria.

So then Daria said, "We might as well as follow him.  He's going in the right direction after all.  And besides, if any wild animals do show up, we can always throw Mr. O'Neill to it which will buy us time to get to safety."

That made sense.  Everyone liked that idea.  So did I.  He didn't have a very good survival rating.  So we clustered around Mr. O'Neill and began climbing the mountain again, going a little bit faster this time.  We were trying to be quiet in order to listen for werewolves or jaguars.  The cat, not the car.  But it's a very nice car.  Anyway, I heard that Jane-girl say something to Daria.

So then that Jane-girl said, "Too bad we're not on a sleigh with the wolves behind us, eh?"

So then Daria said, "Hmmm.  The ice-cold breath of old man winter in Siberia or a warm spring evening on a mountain with death and mayhem in the air.  I don't know which one appeals to me more."

"You could try giving him some gum," I said.

So then Daria said, "What?"

"Some gum.  Old man Winter.  I bet he has terrible breath.  My old uncle does.  I try to give him gum all the time.  He won't take it because he says it causes his teeth to fall out."

So then Quinn said, "Tiffany, I think you should stay close to Mr. O'Neill so you can… um…"

So then Daria said, "Give us the details on his leadership so we don't step in it."

"Um.  Okay.  I guess."

And that was how a few minutes later I was walking behind Mr. O'Neill.  He walked upwards.  Ever onwards.  If he kept it up much longer I was sure to break a sweat.  And that would be bad.

I wondered if Stacy had an anti-sweat mascara.  I looked back towards my friends.  They were near the end of the line with the other 15 students.

Oooooofff.  I nearly tripped on a tree root.  Of all the lousy places to put it, why did someone have to put it on this trail?  What was I thinking of before?  Oh, right.  Mascara.

I looked back to ask Stacy a question and saw she was at the rear of the line with the other 12 people.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "…mumble…. dammit, Janet… you know I …."  Or something.  I was beginning to lose interest in what he said.  But it was freaky.  Mr. O'Neill was beginning to sound like my grandfather.  He certainly had about as much fashion sense as him.

"Stacy?" I asked, turning around while walking again.  Only she wasn't there.  She wasn't in the line with any of the other 9 people.

I turned around and didn't want to think of it.  This was bad.

I turned around again and counted again to make sure.  Yep.  There were only 6 other people in line.

This was very bad.

"Um, Mr. O'Neill," I said, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Hhhhowwwwwwwllllllll!!" went the first of the howls in the distance.

This was very, very bad.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "I don't think we'd better stop for a restroom break now, Tiffany.  I think we'd better hurry it up."

I looked behind us and saw the same kind of fear I felt on the remaining 4 people.

This was very, very, very bad.  

"Um, Mr. O'Neill," I said, tapping him on the shoulder again.

"Hhhhowwwwwwwllllllll!!" went the howl again.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Not now, Tiffany.  This isn't good.  In fact, I think we'd better make a run for it."

He grabbed my arm and pulled me along, starting to run.  This was very, very, very bad.  My shoes weren't designed for this kind of activity.   

I looked behind us again and saw that we were alone.  On a plus note at least the constant voices I kept hearing were quiet again.  Well, most of them.

Then it went from bad to worse.  In the distance I heard the recognizable blood curdling scream of Sandi.  And a few minutes later I heard faint voices shouting, then some more screaming, then some more faint howling and then it was all quiet again.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Gasp!  It must've gotten them.  C'mon, Tiffany!  I'll save you if it's the last thing I do!

This was when Mr. O'Neill saw the barn.  We ran to it, got in, and he closed the doors, barricading it with a piece of wood.  We'd heard a few more distant screams in the night.  But the peace and tranquility of the barn lasted only about another 10 minutes until the creature outside finally showed up.  

Which brings us back to where this story started.

The east wall shook from the brunt of an attack, but still held.  The closer creature was getting bold, and Mr. O'Neill was panicking more.  Dust and straw fell from above.  Looking up I noticed how big the hole in the ceiling really was.  When _it first showed up, I boarded and locked up everything I could, but I hadn't counted on that hole._

Unfortunately, Mr. O'Neill noticed it too.  He gasped.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Darnnit, Tiffany!  It'll get through that hole in the roof!  We need to do something!"

What was this _we thingie?  If I went up there, I was sure to break a nail.  Or mess up my shoes.  Maybe even get a splinter.  But the creature heard what Mr. O'Neill screamed and began climbing up the side of the barn.  Huffing and puffing all the time.  Nail be darned, I had to do something.  I couldn't let it in.  I had to protect Mr. O'Neill -- I had to, or I wouldn't get a passing grade and would need to go to summer school.  That was sooooo wrong._

Reaching the top, it turned out I was too late.  I noticed gleaming fangs grinning triumphantly at me.  Then the shape fell through the hole, and landed on Mr. O'Neill below.

So then Mr. O'Neill let out a loud, "Aaaaahhhhh."

So then the big thingie said, "Uuuuhhhffff," as it rolled off Mr. O'Neill.  "Sorry about that."

It sounded like a guy.

He got to his feet and looked up at me.  He probably noticed I was fat.

So then the big hairy guy said, "Greetings, sir and madam.  My name is Derrick Wierwulf and I'm from the life insurance company of Carnage, Cartilage, and Smith and…"

So then Mr. O'Neill screamed, "Eeeeeeeeeeeeekkkk!  A life-insurance selling werewolf!!  We're doomed!!"

So then the big hairy guy said, "Geez, not again.  Look buddy, I'm not a werewolf, okay?"

"Werewolf?" I asked.

So then Mr. O'Neill said/blubbered, "Werewolf!"  And he pointed at the big hairy guy.

So then the big hairy guy said, "Oy.  Fine.  Werewolf."

"There wolf," I said, pointing in the distance as I saw something on four legs baying at the moon.  "There door," I pointed again.

So then the big hairy guy asked, "Why are you talking like that?"

"I thought you wanted to."

So then the big hairy guy said, "No, not really.  I've had a long night, okay."

"Suit yourself."

So then the big hairy guy asked, "Do you need any help getting down from there?"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Tiffany!  Don't trust him!  He's a werewolf!"

So then the big hairy guy said, "Look mack, it's been a long night.  Give it a rest already.  I'm not a friggin' werewolf, okay?"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Then how do you explain all that grunting and heavy breathing you were doing outside?"

So then the big hairy guy said, "Look, there was some howling in the distance and I sure didn't want to end up like as some critter's dinner so I ran up the trail and saw this barn.  You try running up a mountain with asthma something and see how short of breath you get."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Then what about all your hair?  How do you explain that?"

So then the big hairy guy said, "Hey, it's genetics, man.  You try shaving 3 times a day."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "What about your unusual displays of strength and all?"

So then the big hairy guy said, "Hey, it's genetics, man.  When I hit puberty, it just sort of sprang up on me and all.  One day I'm walking around at 150 pounds and the next thing you know I've gained a hundred pounds of muscle.  How embarrassing."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "You're not wearing a shirt, just like a werewolf would do at night."

So then the big hairy guy said, "Hey, it's hot out there, dude.  You try rushing up a mountain to help some school kids when you have as much hair as me and see if you don't sweat a little."

"Eeeewwwwww."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Then what about your snout?  How do you explain that?"

"Mr. O'Neill, that's just rude.  Besides, it's not that big."

So then the big hairy guy said, "Thanks."  And he helped me down.  I got a better look at his nose.

"It's just a little… fat is all."

So then the big hairy guy said, "Thanks a lot."  I don't think he really meant it though.

"What was your name again?" I asked.

So then the big hairy guy said, "Derrick _Wierwulf.  Wier.  As in Weird but no 'd' if that makes it any easier."_

"No, not really.  'errick is hard to say.  Can I call you Derrick instead?"

So then 'errick said, "Sure.  For you, anything."  That was nice because it was hard spelling 'errick when I could spell Derrick a lot easier.

And when he looked at me, the voices seemed very faint.  That was nice.  Still one voice persisted.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Aaaaahhhh, I can't move my arm.  I think it's broken."

"Mr. O'Neill," I said.  "I'm trying to talk here.  What was it you did again, Derrick?"

So then Derrick said, "Well, I sell health insurance.  That looks like a pretty nasty break you've got there, pal.  Too bad my policies don't cover pre-existing conditions."

"I don't get it," I said.  

So then Derrick said, "I sell health as well as life insurance policies, Tiffany."

"I don't get it," I said.  

So then Derrick said, "Insurance.  It pays the bills when you either die or get hurt.  Like, what if a wild animal was to maul you?"

"I don't think I have to worry about that.  I'm not fat anymore.  Animals go after fat people, not thin people."

So then Derrick looked at me and said, "You sure are thin at that.  What are you, anorexic?"

"No."  As if.

So then Derrick asked, "Bulimic?"

"No.  Throw up?  No way.  That would discolor my teeth."  I opened my purse.  "Here's how I stay in shape.  I take Flintstone Chewables, Ritalin, Vitamin A, Adderall, Calcium, Concerta, some Vitamin E, Dexedrine…"

So then Derrick said, "Jeez, you're a walking pharmacy, Tiffany."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "I don't suppose you have any pain killers or aspirin in there, do you?"

"Mr. O'Neill!  I'm trying to talk here.  Now where were we, Derrick?  Oh yes, you don't think this dress makes me look fat do you – especially to wild animals?"

So then Derrick said, "Look, Tiffany.  I'm only a few years older than you and I may not know much of what's what in the world, but I can tell  you one thing for sure.  You are not fat.  If anything, look at me.  I'm fat.  Look at these love handles."  He grabbed a handful of skin and tissue with each hand and warbled it around like silly putty.

That was sooooooo… sooooooo… what was that word?  Sooooo not-right.

"You're not fat.  You're just a little… fat."

So then Derrick said, "Thanks a lot."  I think that was another one of those not-real thanks.

"But it looks good on you."  It really did.  As long as he didn't warble those love handles.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Could someone make me a splint?"

"Mr. O'Neill… I'm in the middle of something here."

So then Derrick said, "You think being fat looks good on me?"

"Oh, yeah."

So then Derrick said, "You're not just saying that, are you?"

"Of course not.  You have larger problems then being fat.  I mean, just look at your receding hairline."

So then Derrick said, "Thanks a lot."  This time, I think he meant it.  He sure did have nice eyes.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Oh, the agony…"

"Mr. O'Neill…  That's just being rude."

*************

We heard the howling every now and then.  I didn't mind it so much as Derrick was there with me.

"…and then Quinn said, 'Oh, no, Sandi, I could never replace you.  At which point Sandi said…"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "I don't suppose either of you could hand me that piece of wood over there so I can make a splint?"

So then Derrick said, "Pssst, dude.  C'mon, help me out here.  I'm trying to score – can't you give it a rest for a bit?"

"Yeaaaaahhhhh," I said.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "If only my Janet were here…"

So then Derrick said, "Well, she's not so ix-nay on the whining for a bit, okay?"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Bwah-hah-hah.  What kind of cold-hearted animal are you anyway?"

So then Derrick said, "Hey!  I may be morally-challenged but I am definitely NOT living-challenged."

Titter  That was actually funny.  "I so understand."

So then Derrick said, "You actually got the gist of what I said?"

"Sure.  How can you not be living-challenged when you're not dead?  Basic tenet of horror 101."

So then Derrick said, "Y'know, most girls I've asked wouldn't have gotten that.  Would you like to go out with me sometime?"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "I suspect that she'll have a lot of free time now – since you've killed all of her friends."

So then Derrick said, "Killed?  Geez, this geezer's got a one-track mind.  Okay, I'll humor you.  Whatever gave you that impression?"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "All the screams in the night we heard before you got here.  You killed all those students."

So then Derrick said, "Oh, that.  Well, it's not like what you think at all.  You see, it's kind of like this.  I was travelling up the road when I noticed your school bus broken down on the shoulder.  I pulled over and saw a lot of kids sitting on the bus who didn't really want to look at me.  That's okay – I kind of have that effect on people.  The hood was up and someone was working on the engine.  I went up to this crazy looking guy.  He was holding a hammer and screaming at the engine.  At least, I hoped it was the engine.  He screamed, 'You stupid hunk of junk!  You'd better work this time or so help me when I get you back to the yard you're going straight to the crusher!  Ha!  You hear that!  THE CRUSHER!  Work dammit!!'  It was kind of weird the way his eye bugged out like that.  So anyway I offer to help the driver…"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Mr. DeMartino."

So then Derrick said, "Whatever.  Anyway, I offer to help this DeMartino and the guy goes totally off the deep end and whacks the engine with blow after blow from the hammer.  I thought I'd better just start backing up, jump in my car and get away.  Far away.  But dammed if that bus just didn't start up.  So anyway this DeMartino fellow looks at me.  His right eye all bloodshot and just about pulsing.  I thought brain aneurysm but he just kept on talking.  'You want to help me, boy?' he asked in as scary a voice I've heard since I watched the Nightmare series last week…"

"That Freddy was such a fashion violation," I said.

So then Derrick said, "True, but I think that was the point.  Anyway DeMartino says to me 'I tell you what you can do for me, boy.  I'm sure that incompetent principal, Ms. Li, has gotten everyone lost so if you can see and know how to navigate in the dark, you could assist me in getting her and the students off that stupid mountainside.'  This was too good to be true, I thought.  I agreed to help get them back to the bus and rushed up after the students.  I could see it now – multiple orders for life insurance policies being sold on a dark mountainside.  Nothing increases sales like some good old fear."

"Horror tenet #2."

So then Derrick said, "You bet.  The night was warm and up I went.  How hard could it be to find a group of students and a principal I thought.  Hoo-boy.  What a mistake that was.  Anyhoo, I'm heading up the mountain.  Here it is a warm night.  You can hear all these noises in the woods like crrriiick, crrriiick, crrriiick or hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Sounds like an owl."

So then Derrick said, "Whatever you say, old dude.  Psst, Tiffany, is he kind of loopy or what?"

"Or what what?"

So then Derrick said, "Got it.  So I'm going on up, following your path.  It wasn't hard since you all managed to go up in a group and crushed all the vegetation along the way.  I'm walking up and I see a split off from the main group.  I follow the split and walk into a clearing and step into something really disgusting."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Ms. Li."

So then Derrick said, "Was that who the head was near the pile of blood and gore?  Huh.  How about that.  Well, I'm not ashamed to say that that freaked me out and I went back to where the group split and followed the larger group further up the mountain.  About then I heard this totally uncool howling in the distance and figured there must be wolves nearby so hurried up the mountain since it was closer to the rest of you all."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Closer to a life insurance policy, you mean?"

So then Derrick said, "You want to tell this story?  Okay, then.  So here I am hurrying up the mountain, when I encounter something.  I look closer and can see some kids hiding behind some bushes.  I couldn't get a good view of a couple of them but one was wearing a lot of black.  So I go towards the bushes and introduce myself as Derrick Wierwulf, Life Insurance salesman… at which point they scream 'It's a Life Insurance Selling Werewolf!!'  And then the rotten little bastards start throwing rocks at me.  So I do the prudent thing and took off running further up the mountain.  This is getting weird, I think.  A few minutes later I see a couple girls hiding behind some trees.  Again I go and introduce myself as Derrick Wierwulf, Life Insurance salesman… at which point they scream 'It's a Life Insurance Selling Werewolf!!'  And then they start throwing bottles of nail polish at me.  So I do the prudent thing, again, and take off running further up the mountain."

"That was sooooo wrong."

So then Derrick said, "I'll say."

"That was a waste of perfectly good nail polish."

So then Derrick said, "Up I go some more.  I see a couple African-American kids hiding behind some trees.  Again I go and introduce myself as Derrick Wierwulf, Life Insurance salesman… at which point they scream 'It's a Life Insurance Selling Werewolf!!'  And again they throw some rocks at me.  Again, I go on up.  It beat the hell out of going down and getting clobbered by kids with rocks.  This time I see three girls.  I approach slowly but they must have heard me anyway.  Two of the girls, one in a green jacket and the other in a red coat climb up the tree.  The third girl just hid behind some bushes.  Again I go and introduce myself as Derrick Wierwulf, Life Insurance salesman… at which point the girl hiding behind the bush screams 'It's a Life Insurance Selling Werewolf!!'  But instead of throwing rocks at me she whips a can of soda at me and I get clobbered.  Which of course meant the soda in the can went all over my shirt.  And since I was sweating anyway…"

"Eeeewwwwwww."

So then Derrick said, "…I went ahead and took it off.  No sense wearing a sticky shirt on a warm night.  And again I kept going up the mountain.  So next time I hear these three guys coming on down looking for a Quinn or someone when I hide in some bushes.  They seem to head right for me so I stand up and introduce myself as Derrick Wierwulf, Life Insurance salesman… at which point they scream 'It's a Life Insurance Selling Werewolf!!'"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, " "And threw rocks at you."

So then Derrick said, "Right.  Well, at this point I'm getting a little tired and sore from all the rocks being thrown at me so I sneak up to some bushes where I hear some movement and what do I see but this clown in a football uniform and a cheerleader making out.  And what do I do but stupidly introduce myself as Derrick Wierwulf, Life Insurance salesman… at which point they scream 'It's a Life Insurance Selling Werewolf!!'  And again they throw some rocks at me.  By this time the howling was getting closer.  I found the path again and it headed for this barn.  So I hoof it up here as fast as I can.  I wanted to shout to get in but was breathing so hard I couldn't get my voice under control.  So I banged on the walls to get you to open the door before the critter, whatever it was, came after me.  I heard the old duff here cry something about an opening in the roof or 2nd level or something so I found a ladder outside and climbed up and sort of fell in."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "On me."

So then Derrick said, "Er… yeah.  Sorry about that.  Anyway, that's how I ended up here."

"Hooooooowwwwlll!!"  The howling had gotten a little bit closer.

Then the doors rattled!

So then Mr. O'Neill, Derrick and I gasped.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "It's the werewolf.  Don't open it!  Bwah-hah-hah!"

So then Derrick said, "Contrary to what spineless here says, I think we need to answer it.  What do you think we should do, Tiffany?"

Someone actually asking my opinion.  He sure had a nice voice.  "I think we should answer it."

So then Derrick said, "You got it.  Who's out there?!"

So then a voice said, "It's Ghandi!  Who the heck do you think it is?!"

So then Derrick said, "Not Ghandi!  He's dead!"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "It's the werewolf!  Don't let him in!"

So then Ghandi said, "Geez, already!  It's Wild Bill!  Now let me in!"

"Are you fashionably dressed?!"

So then Wild Bill said, "Huh?!  What the heck are you asking that for?  Hell no I'm not fashionably dressed!  This is the mountains after all!"

So then Derrick said, "Why ask that Tiffany?"

"Stands to reason that if there was a werewolf out there he'd say he anything to get in, including saying he was fashionably dressed.  And how could that be since they were in the mountains and all."

So then Derrick said, "I won't even pretend to understand that.  But you haven't been wrong yet, so here goes."

Derrick opened the doors and some guy in blue jeans, flannel shirt (plaid even!), walking boots and glasses came in.  He was over six feet tall with short dark hair.  I could tell immediately that he wasn't the werewolf.  It was apparent.  Glasses?  I think not.  Derrick closed the door behind him.

So then Wild Bill said, "You one of the students from Ms. Li's group?"

  
So then Derrick said, "What do you think?"

So then Wild Bill said, "I think you're awfully hairy."

So then Derrick said, "I think you're ready for a fat lip."

"Could we please not talk about fat?"

So then Derrick said, "Sorry.  So what's your story, pal?  Why're you out here?"

So then Wild Bill said, "I'm the owner of Wild Bill's Telescope Rentals and I got a little worried when Ms. Li didn't show up with her latest group of telescope renters.  If she thinks she can stiff me after I've already paid… uh… anyway I came down the trail, heard some of that weird howling and was simply heading to where I heard some other noise when some people jumped out from behind trees and started throwing rocks at me.  Little bastards.  So if you're not from Ms. Li's group, who are you?"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "He's a werewolf!  You don't have any drugs on you by chance do you?"

"Mr. O'Neill!  You're embarrassing me!"

So then Wild Bill said, "He always like this?"

So then Derrick (who rolled his eyes) said, "He has been tonight.  Name's Derrick, this is Tiffany and the stiff on the ground's Mr. O'Neill."

So then Wild Bill said, "So he thinks you're a werewolf?"

So then Derrick said, "He thought you were a werewolf."

So then Wild Bill said, "Well, something's out there."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "It's a werewolf I tell you."

"Mr. O'Neill!"

But then the doors shook again as someone or some_thing pounded on it._

So then Mr. O'Neill, Derrick, Wild Bill and I gasped.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "It's the werewolf.  Don't open it!  Bwah-hah-hah!"

So then Derrick said, "Tiffany?"

He still had a nice voice.  "We'd better answer it."

So then Derrick said, "You got it.  Who's out there?!"

So then a voice said, "It's George Burns and Gracie Allen!  Who the heck do you think it is?!"

So then another voice said, "Gee, I thought my name was Brittany."

So then Derrick said, "Not George Burns or Gracie Allen!  They're dead!"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "It's the werewolf!  Don't let him in!"

So then George Burns said, "Geez, already!  It's Kevin and Brittany!  Let us in!"

Derrick opened the door and Kevin and Brittany came in.  The doors were closed after they came in.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Kevin!  Brittany!  Did either of you see any other students out there?"

So then Kevin said, "No but we saw the werewolf.  It was horrible, man!"

So then Brittany said, "I'll say.  Kevvie and I were kissing and this really hairy beast came up and startled us so we threw some rocks at it and it ran away.  So we decided to head back towards the bus and found this barn instead.  So then Kevvie said it looked like a good place to make out and we heard the howling and stuff…"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Um… Brittany?  You do realize that this barn is further up the mountain and away from the bus don't you?"

So then Brittany said, "It is?  Kevvie!  You said you knew which direction you were going!"

So then Kevin said, "Sure, babe.  We were headed south, the same way the moon comes up every morning."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Bwah-hah-hah.  We're all going to die."

So then Derrick said, "Tiffany, are these two in a special class or something?"

I didn't have time to answer him as the doors shook again as someone or some_thing pounded on it._

So then Mr. O'Neill, Derrick, Wild Bill, Kevin, Brittany and I gasped.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "It's the werewolf.  Don't open it!  Bwah-hah-hah!"

So then Derrick said, "Who's out there?!"

So then a girl's voice said, "It's Picasso, the Soviet Union and Lassie!  Who the heck do you think it is?!"

So then another girl's voice said, "Hey!  I'm not a dog!"

So then Derrick said, "Not Picasso, the Soviet Union or Lassie!  They're dead!"

"Lassie's dead?  When did that happen?"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "It's the werewolf!  Don't let him in!"

So then Picasso said, "What is this, 20 questions?!  Geez, already!  It's Jane, Daria and Quinn!  Just open the damn door!"

Derrick opened the door and that Jane-girl, Daria and Quinn came in.  The doors were then closed.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Daria, Jane!  Did either of you see any other students out there?"

So then Quinn said, "No but we saw the werewolf.  It was horrible!  I was able to send it running after I threw my can of soda at it."

So then that Jane-girl said, "In fact the werewolf kind of looked like the guy who opened the door for us."

But then the doors shook again as someone or some_thing pounded on it._

So then Mr. O'Neill, Derrick, Wild Bill, Kevin, Brittany, Daria…

But then Daria later said, "I don't gasp, Tiffany."

"You don't?"

So then Daria said, "Have you ever heard me gasp?"  
  


"Nooooo…"

So then Daria said, "Well there you have it.  No precedent.  Therefore I didn't gasp."

"Okay."

So then Mr. O'Neill, Derrick, Wild Bill, Kevin, Brittany, Daria, Jane…

But then Jane later said, "I don't gasp, Tiffany.  Same reason."

"Okay."

So then Mr. O'Neill, Derrick, Wild Bill, Kevin, Brittany, Daria, Jane, Quinn (whew, okay) and I gasped.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "It's the werewolf.  Don't open it!  Bwah-hah-hah!"

So then Derrick said, "Who's out there?!"

So then a voice said, "It's Moe, Larry and Curly!  Who the heck do you think it is?!"

So then Derrick said, "Not the 3 stooges!  They're dead!"

So then Daria said, "Not these stooges.  They're in our school."

Derrick opened the door and Joey, Jeffy and Jamie came in.  The doors were then closed.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Um… students!  Did either of you see any other students out there?"

So then Joey said, "No but we saw the werewolf.  It was… Quinn!  Are you alright?!"

So then Jamie said, "Quinn, don't listen to him, blah blah blah."

So then Jeffy said, "Quinn, blah blah blah blah blah."

I was going to ask Derrick something but then the doors shook again as someone or some_thing pounded on it._

So then Mr. O'Neill, Derrick, Wild Bill, Kevin, Brittany, Daria, Jane, Quinn, Joey, Jeffy, Jamie and I gasped.

But then Daria said, "With this much gasping, I'm starting to run out of air."

So then that Jane girl said, "What?!  I can't hear you – we're running out of air in here."

I don't think they meant that.  But then again, we were on a mountain.  Maybe there was less air 1,200 feet above sea level.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "It's the werewolf.  Don't open it!  Bwah-hah-hah!"

So then Derrick said, "Who's out there?!"

So then a girl's voice said, "It's Maude Flanders and Bleeding Gums Murphy!  Who the heck do you think it is?!"

So then Derrick said, "Not them!  They're dead cartoon characters!"

So then the voice said, "So?  Open the doors already – it's Jodie and Mack!"

So then Kevin said, "Mack-daddy?!"

So then another voice outside said, "I told you not to call me that!"

Derrick opened the door and Jodie and Mack came in.  The doors were then closed.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Jodie, Mack!  Did either of you see any other students out there?"

So then Mack said, "No but we saw the werewolf.  Or at least what we thought was the werewolf."

So then Jodie said, "I can't believe I let myself get caught up in that."

So then Daria said, "Hey."

So then Jodie said, "Hey."

So then that Jane-girl said, "Hey."

So then Mack said, "Hey."

I envied them.  They could have a real dialog and not have it be just fashion-stuff.

But then the doors shook again as someone or some_thing pounded on it._

So then Mr. O'Neill, Derrick, Wild Bill, Kevin, Brittany, Daria, Jane, Quinn, Joey, Jeffy, Jamie, Jodie, Mack and I gasped.

So then Derrick said, "Who's out there?!"

So then a girl's voice said, "It's Princess Grace and Mother Teresa!  Who the heck do you think it is?!"

So then Daria said, "This is getting stupid."  She then walked to the door without waiting for the correct password and simply opened it up.  

There stood Stacy and Sandi.  Whew.  Stacy was alive.  The thought of having to re-inventory my accessories was making me a little panicked.

So then that Jane-girl walked outside and yelled, "Yo!  Everyone shake a leg and get up to this barn before the Great Evil Pumpkin gets you!  Chop chop!  Move it or lose it!"

So then Daria said, "I still say you'd make a great drill sergeant.  Think of it as your next career move."

So then that Jane-girl said, "What?  And give up the chance to go into a foreign countries like Canada or Vermont and miss out on the chance to shoot roadsigns?  I think not."

I heard rustling and feet running.  Soon enough the last of the missing students were inside the barn.  We shut the doors as whatever made the howling was still outside.  I wondered where that Jane-girl had heard of the Great Evil Pumpkin.  I'd only heard of the Great Pumpkin.  More than likely it was his evil twin brother.  They're like that.

So then Daria said, "Okay, people, let's get one thing straight.  There's no such thing as a werewolf."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "What about this life insurance seller here?  How do you account for him?"

So then Daria said, "He may be crude, loud, has a sweaty smell…"

"Eeewwww."

So then Sandi said, "Eeewwww."

So then Stacy said, "Eeewwww."

So then Quinn said, "Eeewwww."

So then Jodie said, "Eeewwww."

So then Mack said, "Eeewwww."

So then Joey said, "Eeewwww."

So then Jeffy said, "Eeewwww."

So then Jamie said, "Eeewwww."

So then Upchuck said, "Eeewwww."

So then Andrea said, "Eeewwww."

So then That Jane-girl said, "Eeewwww."

So then Brittany said, "Eeewwww."

So then Kevin said, "Eeewwww."

So then Nameless Kid 1said, "Eeewwww."

So then Nameless Kid 2said, "Eeewwww."

So then Nameless Kid 3said, "Eeewwww."

So then Nameless Kid 4said, "Eeewwww."

So then Nameless Kid 5said, "Eeewwww."

So then Daria said, "… and sell life insurance…"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Eeeekkkk!"

So then Daria said, "… but that isn't a crime.  Despite what some others might say, right Sandi?"

So then Sandi said, "Um, okay.  But could we talk about this later?  I'm involved in, like, a **real fashion emergency now.  I broke another nail."**

*************

After everyone came into the barn we found out that none of us wanted to go back outside until the howling stopped.  I thought we'd just sit there and hopefully not have to listen to Mr. O'Neill try to cheer us up.  It was not a good thing when he tried to do that.  Fortunately Kevin thought to bring along his disco ball and stereo.  And since Wild Bill had a flashlight, Mack and Jodie started playing tunes while Wild Bill held up the glitter ball and flashed his flashlight towards it.

You could feel the relaxation in the air.  It was almost like being in school during study hall when the teachers weren't around to keep you quiet.  I noticed that Jane-girl and Quinn's sister, Daria, decided to take a nap on the straw in the back.  And O'Neill had finally passed out so he wasn't so rude anymore.

Everything was going okay.  Stacy and Quinn were consoling Sandi over her broken nails and leaving me alone.  That was good.  I didn't like it when they asked me questions that made my brain hurt.  Jodie and Mack came up to Derrick and me.  

So then Jodie said, "I'm sorry I reacted the way I did and threw rocks at you earlier."

So then Mack said, "I can't believe I fell for all that werewolf stuff either.  I feel foolish."

So then Derrick said, "No problem.  Your aim was off so not many of them actually hit."

Then the doors shook again as something pounded on it.

So then an awakened Mr. O'Neill, Derrick, Wild Bill, Kevin, Brittany, Daria, Jane, Quinn, Joey, Jeffy, Jamie, Jodie, Mack, Sandi (minus three nails), Stacy, Upchuck, Andrea, five other nameless kids and I gasped.

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Oh, um… heh-heh.  Um.  Don't panic, students.  I think Daria was right earlier.  There's no such thing as a werewolf.  We've all been letting our imaginations get the better of us.  Kevin, go open the door will you?"

So then Kevin said, "But what about the were…"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Kevin!  A werewolf is a supernatural being.  And we all know there's no such thing as a supernatural being."

So then Daria said, "Unless you count zombies.  They like to eat brains."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Um… heh-heh.  What a kidder you are, Daria.  Kevin, open the door."

Kevin opened the door all the way.  Illuminated in the full moonlight above was Ms. Li.  Her head was back on where it should have been.  It didn't make it look any less a fashion-violation though.

So then Kevin said, "It's Ms. Li!  She's come back from the dead to kill us and eat our brains!  She's a zombie!!!"

So then Daria said, "He's making it too damn easy, Jane.  I can't even bring myself to say it."

So then that Jane-girl said, "I can.  If that's true, Kevin, then you don't have anything to worry about."

So then Daria said, "Thanks, Jane.  No straight line should go unanswered."

So then that Jane-girl said, "No problemo, Daria.  You sure hit the nail on that setup."

So then Daria said, "Thanks.  I peeked.  Like shooting fish in a barrel."

So then that Jane-girl said, "Still with the stupid fish I see."

So then Daria said, "I left my book of metaphors at home."

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Ms. Li!  You're here!"

So then Jodie said, "More to the point, you're alive."

So then Ms. Li said, "What?"

So then Brittany said, "But what happened to you, Ms. Li?  My Kevvie said you lost your head and stuff."

So then that Jane-girl said, "Hey, she actually got it right."

So then Daria said, "For once."

So then Ms. Li said, "I remember marching after young Charles…"

So then Brittany said, "Who?"

So then Upchuck said, "Me!"

So then Brittany said, "Oh."

So then Ms. Li said, "…when I apparently tripped over some small dead animal that had been recently ripped apart.  From what I could gather, I must've flipped when I fell forward into a bush as only my head was out of the bush when I woke up.  The fall also must've knocked me out.  Didn't anyone come looking for me?"

So then Mr. O'Neill said, "Um, yes.  Kevin went looking for you and said that your head was laying next to your body."

So then Ms. Li said, "Well, of course it was."

So then Kevin said, "About 5 feet away from the rest of the your body, you zombie you!  Man, we're all gonna die!"

So then Ms. Li said, "What?!  Where does he get this nonsense from anyway?!"

So then Daria said, "Does anyone really know what goes on in Kevin's mind?"

So then Ms. Li said, "Point taken, Miss Morgendorffer.  Once I woke up I headed towards Wild Bill's and heard noise coming from this barn.  And now after seeing all this tomfoolery, I want you to break it up and head for the star gazing rendezvous site so we can continue with our star gazing field trip."

So then Derrick said, "I take it this wouldn't be a good time to go over your individual life insurance needs?"

So then Ms. Li said, "Mr. …. Whatever your name is… I…"

So then Daria said, "Or do you think you two should go over the school's needs once word of this little debacle gets out to public light?"

So then that Jane-girl said, "And lawsuits begin…"

So then Ms. Li said, "… rotten little…  People!  Carry on shindigging  You!  Let's talk… grumble… insurance!"

While Derrick went to talk with Ms. Li, I went to talk to Quinn's sister.  "It wasn't very nice of you to scare all those people on the bus and on the trail like you did, you know."

So then Daria said, "I enjoyed it."

So then that Jane-girl said, "Have you ever scared anyone, Tiffany?"

"Me?  No."

So then that Jane-girl said, "Then don't knock it until you've tried it."

And that was pretty much how the night ended.

No one died.  No one was hurt, except Mr. O'Neill and maybe Lech, I mean, Upchuck.

I got my "B" on the assignment. Yay, me!

The party went on for another hour until it became apparent it was ready to end anyway since Wild Bill's flashlight was fading out and no one likes to dance in the dark without glitter light.  The doors were opened and we went outside to head to the bus at Wild Bill's.  Ms. Li was still haggling over some point or other with my Derrick.  The evening was getting cooler but not yet cold.  It was enjoyable to go down a mountain instead of up on.  On occasion I would look up and see the stars.  They were pretty.  Kind of like a really expensive pearl necklace that broke and the pearls were all over the place.  You just wanted to reach up and grab one.

I think we would have all enjoyed the rest of the evening star gazing.

But then the mosquitoes started feasting.  

And that was soooooo wrong.

**EPILOG:**

It turned out the critter doing the howling was Wild Bill's dog which had gotten loose the day previous.   Since Wild Bill had about 9 pooches he didn't notice one was missing.

Sandi went home, started her homework, stopped working on it, and then read Waif.

Stacy went home, started her homework, did most of it, and then read Waif.

Quinn went home, started her homework, finished it, and then read something non-Waif.

Daria went home and did all of her homework.  Then she watched TV.  She didn't do a thing with her hair.

That Jane-girl went home and did homework.  She might have finished it.  I wasn't too sure on that.  Then she watched TV, got bored and painted.

Jodie went home, did all of her homework and had her parents put her to work doing something else.

Mack went home, did all of his homework, worked out, watched TV and tried to call Jodie but she was unavailable doing her parent's chores.

Kevin went home, didn't bother doing his homework, instead rested all day Saturday so he could go to a party that weekend where he proceeded to get drunk.  It was one of his duties as the QB.  Or so I heard.

Brittany went home but then disappeared for a few days only to show up in school Monday with no explanation as to where she'd been.

Joey went home and did some of his homework but then pulled out a Gameboy and played games the rest of the time.

Jeffy went home and did most of his homework but then pulled out an Atari and played some really old games.

Jamie went home and did all of his homework, and then pulled out some comic books and read.

Upchuck went home and took multiple baths to get rid of the Army Ants still crawling on his skin.

Andrea went home.  I don't think she did her homework but she did go to work.

The other five nameless kids went home and did other nameless things.  I don't think they read Waif.

Mr. O'Neill went to the hospital but since he had an HMO they sent him home until he could come back on Monday during regular business hours.  At home, his "Janet" (whoever that was) came by and snapped his arm back in its socket since it wasn't broken but simply dislocated.

Ms. Li bought some insurance. 

And me?  Well… I went out on a date with a very nice guy.  Or werewolf.  Whatever.  If he was a werewolf it was unlikely he would kill his own girlfriend and if he were just a regular guy he still had cute eyes and a nice voice.  And most importantly – I didn't look fat when I was with him. 

The End 

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                                       Discussion.  What conclusions can you draw from this story?  Who is Tiffany Blum-Deckler?  Anyone?

Larissa:                                  She's a vidiot.

Nick:                                       Reasons?

Larissa:                                  Her story referenced a half-dozen movies from that time period.  She even referenced movies when she made decisions on what she wanted to do.

Colin:                                      I'll concede the point, Larissa.  She did reference movies.  But then a lot of what comes out of those decades did.  Hell, we still do it today.  Last night's news ran something on 'Where Were You When Titanic 3 Came Out?'  

Larissa:                                  So what's your point?

Colin:                                      My point is you shouldn't dismiss someone because they use movie references in their writing.  It's like the pot calling the kettle black.

Bob:                                        What's a kettle?

Aaron:                                    Sure.  We tell you, you tell someone else.  Pretty soon everyone knows and then anarchy reigns.

Naomi:                                    I don't want to make a rush decision and categorize her without some more information.  Did she have any feed from the Li archive about this?

Bridget:                                  Actually, she did.  Colin, you want to run it now?

Colin:                                      Sure.  Nick?

Nick:                                       Loading… now.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

BEGIN VIDEO 

April 2002.

Location: Lawndale High hallway.  Time: morning.

Jane is at her locker.  Daria walks up.  She looks tired.

Jane:                                       What's up, Daria?  You look tired.  Late night with Tom again?  To much lovin' and not enough snoozin'?

Daria:                                      Go to Hell.

Jane:                                       Been there, done that.

Daria:                                      If you must know, I spent most of the weekend editing Tiffany's story.

Jane:                                       Ouch.  That bad, eh?

Daria:                                      Conceptually, no.  It was very good.  But there were just so many grammatical errors.  I don't know how she's passing class now.

Jane:                                       C'mon.  You know Mr. O'Neill.  He won't fail anyone if he can help it.  I don't think he has it in him.

Daria:                                      Then how can you explain the time he sent me to detention?

Jane:                                       Mid-morning rendezvous with Ms. Barch?

Daria:                                      Eeeewwwww.

Jane:                                       Speaking of the devil…

Daria:                                      Which one?

Jane:                                       Tiffarna – the Fashionably Late.

Daria:                                      You made that up.

Jane:                                       Prove it.

Sandi:                                     Gee, Quinn, maybe you should blah blah blah blah blah.

Quinn:                                    Oh, no, Sandi, I could never blah blah blah blah blah.

Daria:                                      And here I thought Tiffany was just making that part up.

Jane:                                       Huh?

Daria:                                      Never mind.  Tiffany?  Could I speak with you for a moment?

Sandi:                                     Like, if you want to speak with one member of the Fashion Club, you'll have to speak with all the members of the Fashion Club.

Daria:                                      No problem.  I'm sure my largus craniumus isn't contagious anymore.

Sandi:                                     Tiffany, we'll wait for you in class.  Later.

Tiffany:                                  Do you need fashion advice?

Daria:                                      What do you think?  No, don't answer that.  I don't have that much time.  Um, Tiffany, I'm curious.  You do know that our assignment was to write a story about the future and not about something that actually happened, right?

Tiffany:                                  Okaaaaayy.  I'm sure Stacy wrote down the minutes of that meeting so we can ask her to confirm if for you.

Daria:                                      (sighs) No, I'm good.  I was just curious to know why you didn't write a piece of fiction.

Tiffany:                                  Fiction?  What's that?  Will it make me fat?

Daria:                                      Never mind.

Tiffany:                                  Fiction.  I've heard of that.  I'm sure it was on that show with that guy.  You know.  The one with the guy with the beard.

Jane:                                       I thought it was the one with the guy with just the moustache.  Or was it the girl with the moustache?  I get those two confused.

Tiffany:                                  What?

Jane:                                       What what?

Tiffany:                                  Isn't that what I just said?

Daria:                                      Can you two stop it?  My brain hurts.

Tiffany:                                  Oooohhhh, you might be getting sick again.  I've been sick before.  Would you like a makeover?  It helps me when I'm sick.  I think.

Daria:                                      Sigh.  No.

Tiffany:                                  Did you want to ask me something?

Daria:                                      Not anymore.

Tiffany:                                  About what I wrote?

Daria:                                      Not anymore.

Tiffany:                                  Is it okay?  Will I get my "B" taken away?

Daria:                                      What you wrote will be okay.  I'll convince Mr. O'Neill that Derrick Wirewulf wasn't out to get him but if he doesn't let you submit the story of how you two met, he will be.  That ought to let him give it a formal release.  And no one will take away your "B".

Tiffany:                                  That's good.  I think.  I hope your brain gets better.

**VIDEO ENDS**

Colin:                                      That was the only feed we could find on her story at all.  If Daria ever talked with Mr. O'Neill, then she must've done it off school grounds.

Bridget:                                  That, or the cameras were out of commission when they discussed it.  It's hard to say.  We didn't bother to run a full date/time comparison to see if there were any gaps since it would've taken way too long and we wanted to finish this up before we graduated.

Colin:                                      Anyway.  So what was Tiffany's life like?  I've got the early portion.  Tiffany graduated in the class of 2003.  Two days after graduation she turned 18 and apparently moved out of Lawndale.  We could find no records of her going to college at all.  That wasn't surprising since she'd had a straight-C average all throughout high school.

Colin con't.:                          What is surprising is the story the Lawndale newspaper ran about a week after she left.  At the end of the school year the school staffs goes and cleans out the lockers for the next year's class.  Apparently when they opened Tiffany's locker they found a huge stash of pills.  The story that ran implicated her as a dope dealer and comments in the story by former students suggested that she abused those pills since it seemed she was never "all there" during school classes and whatnot.

Colin con't.:                          But what I found interesting was the correlation to the types of drugs listed in the article to those listed in the story.  They were in sync.  There were a few other types of pills listed in the article but essentially there was no hard-core drugs prevalent during that time period such as cocaine, morphine, cannabis or meth.  There weren't even any lesser drugs listed such as Jolt cola, Smores or any of the plethora of sugarized candies floating everywhere back then.  Instead these were these drugs that weren't really known.  Why?  Was she trying to corner a niche market?  I don't think so.  Not after seeing what she became.  The article also mentioned that her parents were frantic with worry about their daughter who just up and disappeared without taking anything from her home with her such as her vitamins.  That's what got me to wondering about this to begin with.  I accessed the Lawndale police archives and got a complete list of the drugs found in Tiffany's locker.  There were two types of drugs found - the over the counter meds such as Vitamins A, B, C, etc. and the prescription kind which further investigation back then found all the meds were in her name.  I ran a search on the meds to see what they were used for.

Colin con't.:                          Apparently she'd been diagnosed with attention-deficit (hyperactivity) disorder, or ADHD at some point before beginning high school and had been taking these medications.  Usually you would take one or another or switch from one to another and not take them in concert but the dates on the bottles suggested that she'd been prescribed them at the same time.  There's no telling what kind of chemical reaction she'd been getting from taking that many meds simultaneously.  So when she graduated and turned 18, she was technically an adult so she quit taking all her meds, threw them in her locker and left her entire life behind.  To me, that took guts.

Bridget:                                  We found reports that she eventually married Derrick Wirewolf and had a couple kids.  Once she turned 18, her bio read that she got off all meds her family had been forcing her to take and Derrick was the source of her courage to kick the habit.  A few years into their marriage, he quit the life insurance biz altogether and was part of a group which became the primary backers of Army Airlines, which was a no-frills, do-it-our-way or do-10-pushups startup airlines.  Not only did the airlines bring the Army back out of the red, but it also increased recruiting numbers.  We were able to download a recruiting commercial from shortly after Army Air took off.  I think it's ingenious.  Loading video feed… now.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

BEGIN COMMERCIAL VIDEO 

(A military plane is seen flying high in the sky.  It looks like a cargo transport painted with camouflage colors.)

VO:                                         Be one of the few, the proud, and if you're lucky, one of the proud few attendants on board Army Air where you can order the passengers to do your bidding unlike the other way around on other airlines.

(Video zooms into the plane.  Inside are rows of seats.  A flight attendant dressed in army fatigues is standing over what looks like a drunk passenger.)

Drunk:                                    I said I wanted another drink or I'll…

Attendant:                             Or you'll what, you puke?!  I've a good mind to throw you out the nearest airlock, you got that?!

Drunk:                                    You can't talk to me that way!

Attendant:                             I sure can, you mealy mouthed sack of crap!  You should've read your boarding agreement more closely!  Where you from anyway?!

Drunk:                                    St. Louis.

Attendant:                             St. Louis?  Only two things come from St. Louis – steers or queers!  Which one are you, boy?

Drunk:                                    Well, my boyfriend sometimes calls me a q…

Attendant:                             Okay, that didn't come out like I'd intended.  Drop and give me 20!

Drunk:                                    What am I, in the military or something?

Attendant:                             Worse.  You're on Army Air where we call the shots for low-priced airfares.  Make it 30!

Drunk:                                    What?

Attendant:                             Airlock!  Thirty!  Now!

(The Captain of the plane shows up as the passenger gets out of his seat and drops and give the attendant pushups.)

Captain:                                 We don't offer extras like drinks, snacks or pleasant smiles – but we do offer low fares and will get you to your destination on time.  Guaranteed.  Or we do the pushups.

Drunk:                                    One…two…three…

Attendant:                             You call those pushups, you puke!  Do 'em again or I'll throw your lazy ass into that cornfield 30,000 feet below.  DO IT!!

**VIDEO ENDS**

Bridget:                                  Apparently there were rough times for the airline industry back then.  Planes were being disrupted by rudes and other general jerks.  But then Army Air came in and went head to head with United and the rest of the pack.  At first some reports heralded Army Air as the death of regular commercial airlines but when it came apparent that only the overflow was going to Army Air despite lower fares, those doomsayers were chucked out of their jobs.  It seemed that no one really wanted to go on Army Air unless they didn't have a choice and that had the effect of stabilizing the air-rage phenomena of the time.

Thomas:                                 What's air-rage?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    We'll cover that next semester during Outbreaks of the 21st Century.  Go on, Bridget.

Bridget:                                  There's not a lot more.  Tiffany apparently stayed home and was a mother to her children.  She organized some charity events every now and then, usually having something to do with fashion.  Most of the information we could find was on her husband since he was more in the public light than she was.  About 25 years ago, they were investigated and cleared of any VLS involvement.  Derrick may have had a large nose and hair all over his body, but that didn't make him a VLS carrier.

Austin:                                   Stinkin' virus blood suckers should've all been wiped.

Rose:                                      Shut up, Austin.

Austin:                                   Why should I?  My family lost $10 million during that time.  Money that should have been in my trust fund.

Rose:                                      And I lost a grandfather.

Austin:                                   So you've got VLS as well?

Rose:                                      No.  He'd already had children when he decided to fool around with some infected floozy.  When the toots was investigated she gave up his name and the two of them were torched and salted.  So just shut the hell up, would you?

Diane:                                     Hey, you can't talk to Austin like that!

Diana:                                     You want us to take her outside and smack her around a bit?

Debbie:                                  Or make her do your homework?

Austin:                                   I can take care of this myself, ladies.  But Diane, Diana, and Dido - thanks anyway.

Debbie:                                  It's Debbie.

Austin:                                   Whatever.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Class!  Bridget.

Bridget:                                  Tiffany's children now run Army Air.  It comprises of 3,000 surplus military aircraft and personnel working varying shifts for either the military or Army Air.  Proceeds are in the billions that she and her partners – the Joint Chiefs of Staff – split on a 20/80 agreement.  Congress seems happy that they haven't had to increase funding for the military for the past 40 years.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    So where is Tiffany now?

Colin:                                      Tiffany died of liver failure due to the massive amounts of drugs her family insisted she take during her teens years.  It's unclear if she ever did have A-D-D as her kids still speak highly of her when we contacted them about this assignment.  But it was clear the school board thought it was better off if most students were medicated at some point during their brief stint at Lawndale High.

Nick:                                       What did she leave in her time capsule?

Bridget:                                  Six things: A pack of sugarless Chiclets gum, a TV Guide, a half-used tube of lipstick, a filled-out magazine subscription to Waif, which, interestingly, is no longer in publication, some straw with a bow tied around it which I think came from the barn where she met Derrick, and lastly, a 2nd place medal from a dog show.  

Nick:                                       Speculation on the artifacts?

Colin:                                      The Chiclets was easy.  She referenced it in her story – gum was her one vice.  Therefore it was something that she cared about.

Bridget:                                  The TV Guide was easy as well.  She was a vidiot.  Therefore it was something that she cared about.

Colin:                                      The lipstick was again easy.  She was part of something called a Fashion Club so was concerned about fashion and obviously cared about her appearance - you could tell that from the story.  So it was another thing she cared for.

Bridget:                                  Waif was again another fashion issue.  The subscription held enough subtle advertising for looking good you could choke a horse on it.  It was another thing she seemed to care about.

Colin:                                      The straw may or may not have come from the barn where she met her husband to be.  I think it did and who knows – maybe that's what she wanted people to think.

Bob:                                        I doubt she could think that far in the future.

Bridget:                                  I have to agree with Bob on that.  However, I do think it came from the barn.  Anyway, the dog show medal didn't have a dog's name on it.  But if I had to guess, I'd say she was acting out as a typical teenager when she included it.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Explain, please.

Bridget:                                  The story indicated she wasn't pleased with her parents or with the dog licking her face in the morning.  You could almost feel her anger at her parents for feeding her a plain salad while the mutt got the best foods out there.  Maybe it was voluntary on her part – maybe it wasn't.  I don't think it was and that's my opinion.  

Nick:                                       But how was that an indication that Tiffany was acting out as a typical teenager?

Bridget:                                  I think that medal was the best showing that dog had before Tiffany took it.  And I think she took it to piss her parents off.  I know I would've done the same.

Nick:                                       I see your point.  Good work, you two.  Who's up next?  Aaron, Jane – you two volunteering?  Good enough.

_NEXT:                                   Kevin's story: Upid-Stay. _

Contact me if you want:

jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2001 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).  

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed.  Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you.  A coincidence!   To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real.  Or could it?  I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	5. Kevin's Story UpidStay

Rating: PG-13 (some language) 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!**

Upid-Stay 

**by Kevin (I'm The QB!) Thompson **

(Transcribed by Steven A.  Brown)

CLICK 

I-hay!  Yi-may ame's-nay Evin-Kay Hompson-Tay!  I'm the Be-Quay!  In ase-cay ou-yay uture-fey eople-pay on't-day now-kay hat-way hat-tay tands-say or-fey, it eans-may I'm the uarterback-quay of the awndale-Lay ions-Lay!  E-way ule-ray!  Ot-nay verything-eay, of ourse-cay, hat-tay ould-way e-bay illy-say.  Ho-way ould-way ant-way to ule-ray a us-bay?  Ot-nay e-may!  

Daria: eg-Jay an-kay ke-ikay ro-tay, te-ay eg-jay ent-ray aktisk-fay ik-gay ed-may il-tay at krive-say et-day ed-nay og edigere-ray et-day.  En ler-ellay den-anay kyd-say ig-may.

Yway-anay, I'm the Be-Quay so hat-tay eans-may I ule-ray the ions-Lay.  Ot-nay tual-acay ions-lay, ou-yay now-kay, ike-lay the ones ith-way eally-ray ong-lay air-hay and ointy-pay eeth-tay who on't-day ike-lay ogs-day at all, ut-bay the ootball-fay ions-Lay.  Ut-Bay ot-nay the etroit-Day ions-Lay.  Et-yay.  I'm ure-say I ill-way one day.  I'm a ion-Lay ow-nay so entually-evay I'll be a ion-Lay ater-lay.  Ou'll-yay robably-pay ave-hay eard-hay of ee-may.

**Location: Aaron's home/his room/speaking with Jane via systems link through PC's.  **

**Time: Night/now.**

Aaron:                                    What the hell is all this?

Jane:                                       You tell me.  You're the one who volunteered us for this before we were ready.

Aaron:                                    We are so screwed.

Jane:                                       No shit.  You call Nick yet?

Aaron:                                    No.  You think he might know anything about this?

Jane:                                       Maybe.  At least he can do a search through the Li-base.  I'll link him in.  You get started on a conversion program.

Aaron:                                    Convert what?

Jane:                                       Aaron, this is pig-Latin.  If you don't know what it is, look it up.  Anyway, give me a call back when you're done.  Estimate?

Aaron:                                    At least an hour.  Later.

**Location: Aaron's home/his room/speaking with Jane and Nick via systems link through PC's.  **

**Time: One hour later.**

Jane:                                       Aaron, I've linked Nick in.  What did you get done?

Aaron:                                    The entire story was written in pig-Latin.  Other than a few words here and there.  I swear, someone did this just to piss us off.

Nick:                                       You're more right than you know.  Whoops, sorry to interrupt.  Go ahead, Aaron.

Aaron:                                    Anyway, I wrote a conversion program and ran it through.  Then I had to go back and clean up everything that it missed which was just about everything anyway.  What I got was a story about half in English.  The rest, well, take a look at this line.  I hope I didn't screw up the meaning.

Daria: Jeg kan ikke tro, at jeg rent faktisk gik med til at skrive det ned og redigere det.  En eller anden skyd mig.

Jane:                                       That doesn't look like pig-Latin to me.

Aaron:                                    It's not.  It's a foreign language that I haven't seen before.  The only thing I could do was run it through a language match program and a few minutes later I found that it was Danish.

Jane:                                       So the other half of the story's in Danish?

Aaron:                                    Pretty much.

Jane:                                       After reading about Kevin from some old articles, I didn't think he was smart enough to speak good English, let alone another language like Danish.

Nick:                                       He isn't.

Aaron:                                    What're you not telling us, Nick?  What did you find out?

Nick:                                       I ran the search given the pig-Latin reference as a parameter.  I found some interesting information.  I think it's something you'd have to see rather than just have me tell you.

Jane:                                       Line's secure.  File is open.  Ready for download.

Aaron:                                    My system's ready as well.

Nick:                                       I'll play it as I download it to your systeMs. You might want to keep it to reference.  Downloading… now.

The video-conference images slip out and are replaced with security footage from five decades ago.

BEGIN VIDEO 

November 2001.

Location: Lawndale High hallway.  Time: afternoon.

Daria and Jane are at their lockers.  Kevin walks up.  He looks happy.

Kevin:                                    Daria?  I'm done.

Jane:                                       And not a moment too soon, I must say.  Well, been nice knowing you, Kevin.  Try not to get underfoot when you're fixing streets in the future, okay?

Kevin:                                    Huh?

Jane:                                       You said you were done.  You're quitting school, right?

Kevin:                                    No way, man!  If I quit school then I can't play in Friday's big game and coach said I have to play.

Daria:                                      There goes my early graduation present.

Kevin:                                    I mean I'm done with my story like you wanted.

Daria:                                      As if I wanted your story.  Why are you giving it to me?

Kevin:                                    Huh?  You're a brain aren't you?  You'd naturally get this, right?

Daria:                                      Kevin, have I ever told you how I actually don't like being categorized as a brain.  Can't you think of me simply as Daria?

Kevin:                                    Um… nope.

Jane:                                       How about if I give you 20 smackers to quit school.

Kevin:                                    But if I quit school, then how could I date Brittany if I'm not the QB?

Daria:                                      Besides, where did you get 20 dollars?

Jane:                                       Who said anything about money?

Kevin:                                    Um… Daria?  Here's the assignment, okay?

Kevin tries to give Daria a tape.

Daria:                                      Kevin, this is a cassette tape.  This isn't filled with nocturnal sounds is it?

Kevin:                                    Ho, ho, ho, that's a good one, Daria!  No, I can only borrow my dad's car on the weekend.

Jane:                                       I'm not even going to pretend I understand what he's talking about.

Daria:                                      Who has to pretend?

Kevin:                                    Anyway, I recorded my story just like coach said I should so I can concentrate on Friday's big game.  Here you go.

Daria:                                      Kevin, you were supposed to write it out, not speak it out.

Kevin:                                    But you can turn it to words, right?

Daria:                                      That's not the point, Kevin.

Kevin:                                    Tell you what, you do it and I'll do your homework for the next month.  Deal?

Daria:                                      If I didn't want to fail when we were sophomores, Kevin, I certainly don't want to fail as a senior now.

Kevin:                                    But I thought you chicks were good at doing stuff like that.

Jane:                                       Hoo-boy.

Daria:                                      Well then maybe you should find some "chicks" to transcribe it for you.

Kevin:                                    Well then… uh… tell you what.  You do it and I'll, you know, say hi and stuff when I meet you in the hallway.  That way you won't seem as much an outcast as you do now.

Jane:                                       He really knows how to flatter a girl, doesn't he?

Kevin:                                    It's a gift.

Daria:                                      Forget it.  I don't want anything to do with it.

Kevin:                                    C'mon, Daria.  It's your duty to do it for the good of school.

Daria:                                      But I think it's your duty to not only transcribe it, Kevin, but also convert it into pig-Latin since it is short for pigskin-Latin which was devised centuries ago by football-playing monks in Europe.  And since I'm a "chick", I don't think I could possibly understand pigskin-Latin.

Jane:                                       That was definitely a black mark on your soul.

Daria:                                      And worth every tick.

Kevin:                                    But that would mean the European NFL would be better than the American NFL.  Oh no…

Kevin's face takes on a shocked, horrified look.  He stares off into space.  Daria waves her hand in front of his face.

Daria:                                      Kevin?  Kevin?  Are you in there?

Jane:                                       Uh-oh.  I think we broke him.

Daria:                                      I wonder if he has a reset button anywhere.

Jane:                                       If only Brittany were here.  She'd know where his buttons are.

Daria:                                      More information than I needed to know.

Ms. Li walks up.

Ms. Li:                                    What's going on here?

Jane:                                       Kevin's mind finally went back into its cocoon.

Daria:                                      I wonder if we can get him a job guarding Buckingham Palace.

Ms. Li:                                    Mr. Thompson!  Mr. Thompson!

Jane:                                       If only he had a reset switch…

Ms. Li:                                    Ah, yes.  Of course.  I remember now.  Mr. Thompson – FOOTBALL!

Kevin:                                    Football rules!  Yeah!  Oh, hey, Daria.  I finished my assignment.  Here it is.

Jane:                                       Did we just go back in time?

Daria:                                      One of us just did.

Kevin:                                    You can trans… trins… trens…

Jane:                                       Transcribe?

Kevin:                                    Yeah!  Transcribble it for me, right?  Oh, and put in some of that pigskin-Latin stuff you were talking about, okay?

Daria:                                      Let me check my busy social calendar and get back to you.

Ms. Li:                                    I'm sure you can do it, Miss Morgendorffer.  After all, I know of no one else better suited to transcribe a story into "pigskin"-Latin than you.

Daria:                                      I do have a social life, you know.

Ms. Li:                                    I'm sure you do, but a yearbook picture is worth a thousand words wouldn't you say?

Daria:                                      More like 10,000 words.  Renegotiate.

Ms. Li:                                    Terms?

Daria:                                      I want two pages for my own use in the yearbook.

Ms. Li:                                    All the pages have already been planned out.  There's no more room.

Daria:                                      Remove your advertising pages.  Do you want Kevin's work transcribed or not?

Ms. Li:                                    One-half page and I have final say on all material submitted.

Daria:                                      One full page, you have final say on material submitted, but I want full color, no black and white.

Ms. Li:                                    Agreed.  Mr. Thompson, your story better be worth it.

Ms. Li turns and leaves.

Jane:                                       Why, Daria?

Daria:                                      Why what?

Jane:                                       You just agreed to transcribe Kevin's story which is probably going to require a lot of editing and rewriting anyway.  Why did you do it?

Daria:                                      It's all part of my master plan.  And with dealing with Ms. Li at this time, I have to proceed with baby steps.

Jane:                                       Baby steps?  You're not pregnant again are you?

Kevin:                                    Daria's pregnant?

Daria:                                      I thought I quenched that rumor the last time.

Jane:                                       Good rumors may die, but they never truly get quenched.

Brittany and Jodie walk up.

Brittany:                                 Can I have some?

Daria:                                      Some what?

Brittany:                                 Some Quenched.  Isn't that a new cola?

Jodie:                                      It's not a cola, Brittany.  It's simply a word meaning to crush.

Brittany:                                 But I like Orange Crush soda.

Kevin:                                    Babe, did you hear?  Daria's pregnant.

Daria:                                      Someone's got to die.

Mr. O'Neill and Ms. Barch walk up.

Ms. Barch:                             What's all this I heard about someone being pregnant?

Brittany:                                 Daria's pregnant, Ms. Barch.

Daria:                                      You're a marked woman, Lane.

Jodie:                                      Brittany, Daria's not pregnant.  She's not any more pregnant than Kevin is.

Kevin:                                    Ho, ho, ho!  That's funny.  A QB pregnant?!  Man, that couldn't happen.  That's what chicks are for!

Ms. Barch:                             Typical MALE behavior you've… Say, that would make an interesting experiment.

Kevin:                                    Um, Ms. Barch, why are you looking at me that way?

Ms. Barch:                             Test Subject… I mean, Kevin.  I'd like you to come by my office after school today to talk about… um…

Jodie:                                      His grade?

Ms. Barch:                             That'll do.  Your grade, Kevin.

Kevin:                                    Um… I've got practice after school.  Coach says I have to go.

Ms. Barch:                             I'm sure he can make an exception for science.

Kevin:                                    Um… I've got to go!

Kevin runs away.  

Ms. Barch:                             Come back here, you test subject!!

Ms. Barch runs after a fleeing Kevin.

Brittany:                                 Does this mean I don't get any cola?

Jodie:                                      C'mon, Brittany, I'll buy you a cola.

Jodie and Brittany leave.

Mr. O'Neill:                           Daria?  Is it true?  Are you pregnant?  Do you need some counseling?

Daria:                                      I'm not pregnant.  I'm pretty sure you need to engage in sex to get pregnant.

Jane:                                       Not all the time.  How about invitro…

Daria:                                      I'm warning you, Jane…

Mr. O'Neill:                           If you need to talk, Daria, I'm always here.  Oh my, look at the time, I'm late for my Self Awareness class.  But, Daria, my office is always open.

Mr. O'Neill leaves.

Daria:                                      I'm going to get you, Jane.  One of these days, when you least expect it – **expect it**!

Jane:                                       I have to admit, that was kind of fun.  You want to do it again or do you want to tell me why you're actually editing Kevin's work this time.

Daria:                                      Sigh.  Fine.  I'll tell.  I figured that I was going to have to do it anyway since Mr. O'Neill can barely decipher Kevin's chicken scratches.  So I figured I might as well make it as difficult as possible for those in the future who have to read it.  After all, I shouldn't have to suffer through this myself.

Jane:                                       So you might as well as make those future people suffer along with it.

Daria:                                      Damn straight.

Jane:                                       But I don't understand why you want more work – getting the page in the yearbook sounds like you're going to have to produce a little more extra effort for this project.

Daria:                                      Yes, but I've always wanted to blow the lid on student stupidity here at Lawndale.

Jane:                                       You know Ms. Li won't let you print anything negative about the school.

Daria:                                      Well, you've got a little more leeway in color than in grayscale.  The truth is out there, Jane, even if we have to change some pictures to prove it.  You in?

Jane:                                       Hell yes.

VIDEO ENDS 

Aaron:                                    Well that explains the first question I had but not the second.

Jane:                                       Which is?

Aaron:                                    Why the hell did I volunteer us for this review.  We are so screwed.

**AND NOW – BACK TO THE STORY!**

**Stupid!**

CLICK 

Hi!  My name's Kevin Thompson!  I'm the QB!  In case you future people don't know what that stands for, it means I'm the quarterback of the Lawndale Lions!  We rule!  Not everything, of course, that would be silly.  Who would want to rule a bus?  Not me!  

Daria: I can't believe I actually agreed to transcribing and editing this.  Someone, shoot me.

Anyway, I'm the QB so that means I rule the Lions.  Not actual lions, you know, like the ones with really long hair and pointy teeth who don't like dogs at all, but the football Lions.  But not the Detroit Lions.  Yet.  I'm sure I will one day.  I'm a Lion now so eventually I'll be a Lion later.  You'll probably have heard of me.

Daria: The only way anyone will remember Kevin, if there is a God, is if the traffic accident is especially gruesome.  I can picture it already.  A bus hitting a circus trailer carrying lions that get free and pounce on the first thing they can find which is Kevin.  In fact – check out the yearbook's Be Kind To Wild Animals At Kevin's Expense page!

Anyway, I was given this assignment in school to write a story about the future.  I mean, where did that come from?  But since I'm a good student…

Jane: Bwah-hah-hah-hah!!!  No, sorry.  MmmMMMMMmmmppphhh… must contain laughter.  How do you do it, Daria?  Cough.  Ahem.  Go on.

Daria: I'm laughing on the inside, Jane.

Jane: That's got to hurt.

Daria: You have no idea.

…I figured I'd do it.  So here goes.  Once upon a time there lived a really cool guy named Kevin Thompson (did I tell you, I'm the QB – I mean, _he's the QB!) _

Daria: Smooth, Kevin.  No one will suspect it's you that you're talking about..

…who went to Lawndale High.  

Daria: Whoops.  Spoke too soon.

The _other Kevin was in his history class.  Mr. DeMartino was going over his grades.  He really liked to do that._

"Kevin!" Mr. DeMartino said.  "Another EXEMPLARY use of your mind again I MUST SAY!  You get an "A"…"

Daria: Then where did that F go?

"…and the rest of you can LEARN something from KEVIN!"

Jane: Yeah, how NOT to study while drinking or making out.

Daria: Or studying while drinking while making out.

That was Mr. DeMartino.  He was always going over that _other Kevin's grades and stuff all the time.  It's like he thought that __other Kevin was a real smart guy._

Jane: Bwah-hah-hah-hah!!!  Cough.  Ahem.  Go on.

"Okay, class, POP QUIZ!  Did anyone with even HALF A BRAIN, not you KEVIN, think to read last night's chapter?  Heh, heh, I thought so.  So tell me, in 30 words or less, who shot JFK?!"

The _other Kevin got right to work on it.  First he got a piece of paper from his girlfriend – a really hot head cheerleader – and pulled out a pencil and wrote his name and began answering the question.  Everyone knew that answer.  Except for maybe a few other non-popular kids in class who were always asking him the answers._

"Pssst, Kevin, what's the answer?" asked Daria Morganslopper.

Jane: Morganslopper?  I think you've just been insulted, Daria.

Daria: Editing his work is insulting enough, thank you.

"Daria, I can't tell you that," I said, I mean, the _other Kevin said.  "That would be cheating and you never get ahead in life if you cheat.  That's my motto."_

Jane: Bwah-hah-hah-hah!!!  Cough.  Ahem.  Go on.

Oooohh-oooohh!  I've got a great idea!

Daria: Is it feeding time for the chimps already?

Jane: Bwah-hah-hah-hah!!!  "Idea."  Funny.  Cough.  Ahem.  Go on.

Just then some uncool terrorists showed up before I could get another "A" on my test.  They were always showing up when you least expected them.

Daria: Versus when you most needed them to show up, like during the editing of a really bad story.

They crashed into the room from the windows and doors…

Daria: Beats coming up through the floor I guess.

…and floor…

Jane: Whoops, you spoke too soon again.

Daria: Story of my life.

…and had on these really cool black suits and masks and stuff.  But as cool as they looked they waived guns towards that other Kevin's hot babe of a girlfriend.

"Yo, Mack Daddy!  Throw me some books!"

Jane: Bwah-hah-hah-hah!!!  Books.  This is getting really funny..

"Sure thing, Kevin, old pal," Mack said, hiking me some books.  "And keep on calling me Mack Daddy!  I like hearing you call me that!"

Mack: I'm going to kill him.

Daria: It could be worse – you could be editing this… set of words.

"Sure thing, Mack Daddy!"  I grabbed the books out of the air and used my QB skills (did I forget to tell you, I'm the QB!) to fling them at all the terrorists.  I nailed each one in the head since they weren't wearing helmets.

"Oooohhh, Kevin, you saved us all!  Will you go out with me?" Jane asked, who was a friend of Daria.

Jane: I'm going to kill him.

Mack: Get in line.

"Sorry, Jane, but I don't think Brittany would like that.  And I don't go out with other girls since she's my one and only babe.  Unless, of course, she was to suddenly get ugly or something."

Brittany: I'm going to kill him.

Jane: Get in line.

"KEVIN!  That was a brave thing you did, saving us like that.  I'm not even going to grade this test but simply give you the grade you deserve.  Just like last week when you saved us from the sharks in the sewers," Mr. DeMartino said.

Daria: Sharks?  Sewers?  There's no place like home, there's no place like home!

It was kind of embarrassing to be singled out the way he singled me out all the time but I figured it kind of made him happy.

"KEVIN!  Did you hear me?  Turn OFF that tape recorder or…"

**CLICK.**

**CLICK.**

So there I was, surrounded by unconscious terrorists, again, and being congratulated, again.  I got the class back to order and we sat through our lesson and learned stuff.  I could feel all the chicks eyes on me since I was the manliest man in there.

Upchuck: I'm going to kill him.

Brittany: Get in line.

So after class, I was walking down the hall when I looked up and noticed a plane in a dive, heading right for the school!

Daria: And apparently right towards the glass ceilings used in the hallways.

It was neat of the other kids not to run into me as I stood there and watched the plane get larger and larger.  They kind of respect me, I mean, that other Kevin that much.  And why not – I'm the QB!

Jane: Like we didn't hear that in the last few seconds.

I looked around and saw the display case where all my awards are kept and ran over to it and knocked it down.

Daria: I wonder how he did that since it was embedded into the wall?

Jane: He probably used his head.

Brittany: You mean he thought it through?

Jane: You wish.

The glass went everywhere but not on me.  I'm just lucky that way.  Anyway I grabbed the awards and rushed outside.  The plane was getting larger and larger.  I could see panic in the eyes of the pilot.  So I used my QB skills (did I forget to tell you, I'm the QB!)…

Jane: Doesn't he ever get tired of saying that?

Brittany: You wish.

…and I threw the winning footballs towards the big engine thingie thing and knocked the bird loose that was in there that I noticed earlier.  It was cool.  

"Kevin, that was cool," said Jodie.  She was student council secretary or something.  "Will you go out with me?"

Jodie: I'm going to kill him.

Upchuck: Get in line.

"Sorry, Jodie, but I couldn't do that to Mack Daddy.  He's my best friend."

Mack: So maybe I won't kill him.

"I won't tell if you won't tell," Jodie pleaded with me.

"Well, okay then."  And we started kissing.

Mack: I take it back.  I'll strangle him if it's the last thing I do.

Jodie: Get in line.

Oh, right, the plane.  I looked up and saw the pilot get the plane back under control and then open his window and wave.  Then he threw his hat towards me and it landed on my, I mean, the _other Kevin's head.  Yeah, and then he thanked me!_

"Thanks for saving the plane and all the passengers on it, Kevin!  You're the greatest!  I can't wait to tell the little woman I met you!"

Pilot: I'm going to kill him.

Daria: Who're you again?

I knew I was the greatest.

Jane: Is it just me, or is it getting deep in here?

"Hey, Kevin you going to yak in that tape recorder all day or are you gonna join us for lunch, man?  Do the bull, do the bull!"

"Yeah, bull, bull, bull!"

"Yo, dude, put some straws up your nose again!"

"No prob, guys.  But anyone seen Mack Daddy lately?"

"I thought I told you **not** to call me…"

CLICK 

**CLICK**

"Giggle.  But, Kevin, I thought you were going out with Brittany."

"Hey, I am, babe.  But it's a platonic thing that I have to do since I'm the QB.  So what do you say we meet later tonight and do some _studying?"_

Brittany: Must… control… Fist… Of… Death!

Jane: Isn't that someone else's line?

Daria: Not unless it's trademarked.

"I don't know, Kevin.  Brittany's my friend…"

"But I think you're a totally hot babe, Angie.  That means something, doesn't it?"

"Sure… it means something, Kevin.  Say, is that a tape record…"

**CLICK**

**CLICK**

So the plane flew off and the President who was on it also waved at me.  That was kind of cool.  I think.  Then Principal Li came up to me.

"What's the meaning of breaking the trophy case, Kevin?" she asked.

"I had to, Ms. Li.  I had to save the plane before it crashed into the school."

"Oh, that's all right then.  Let me award you in an assembly."

Ms. Li: I'll kill him.

Daria: Okay, who's doing the Ms. Li voice?

Jodie: Me.  Sorry.  I just thought I'd put in her 2 cents worth.

Mack: I think she deserves what she gets for making Kevin write this thing.

Jodie: What write?  He dictated it into a stupid tape recorder and got Daria to transcribe it.

Jane: Who gave us a heads up as to what was written.  So let's hear it for Daria – hip, hip, hooray!

Daria: You're right.  It is getting deep in here.

So that was how I ended up at another assem… assim… assamblably… assembly.  That's it.  Ms. Li went on and introduced me as the QB (I'm the QB!)…

All: Yes, Kevin, we all know that by now.

…and I got another award which I put back in the case that Sandi repaired since that's what the Fashion Club did was to repair things – I think.

Sandi: I'm going to kill him.

Jodie: Get in line.

She looked at me as I opened the repaired glass door and put my award in with the other ones and asked me out.

"Oooohhh, Kevin, you're so manly.  Will you go out with me?"

Sandi: I'd as soon as date a pig.

Upchuck: I've got the entire weekend free.  Will this Friday work?

"No way, um, Sandi.  I've got my standards."

Daria: Yeah.  Passed out and drunk on a lawn.

"Please, Kevin, it would make Quinn so jealous to see you go out with me."

"And it would too," Quinn said, joining in the speaking.  "So don't go out with Sandi but go out with me instead.  Please?  I'll even pay!"

Quinn: I'll kill him.

Sandi: Get in line.

So then Quinn and Sandi got into a cat fight about who was going to pay for our date when my main babe, Brittany came up and took me out to the car for some congratulatory (hey, is that even a word – need to check with Daria on this) making out.  We went for a drive and stopped later on and started kissing and stuff.

Then I heard the train whistle.  Then I heard it again, this time louder.  I stopped making out with Brittany and looked up.  There was a training coming towards me!  That Brittany – she'd managed to stop the car on train tracks.  Again.

Daria: What disturbs me even more is that it took a train for him to realize he was stopped on train tracks.

Brittany: I feel a whole lotta pain coming his way.  Zimba…

Jodie: Brit, no!  Later.  We'll get him later.

Jane: What was all that about?

Daria: I have no idea.

I quickly jumped out of the car and tried to push it off the tracks but we were too badly jammed in place.  I opened the back and pulled out some footballs and stepped back.  Brittany got into the driver's seat and waited.  I hurled some footballs with incredible speed and accuracy (I'm the QB after all) and knocked the car off the tracks moments before the train came through.

"KEVIN!  YOU STUPID BRAINDEAD MALE!  ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!  WHAT IS THAT TAPE RE…"

**CLICK**

**CLICK**

So anyway there I was standing in the pocket as the guys collapsed around me.  I looked the right, then the left and noticed good ol' number… number… uh… Jamie 20 yards down.  I threw the ball dead on and he caught it.  He was tackled right away but that was okay since we now had a first down to work with and we were only four yards out of the end zone.

Wait.  What was I talking about before.  Oh, that's right.  Some future story or something.  Let's see… I was making out with Angie on the train tracks…

Angie: I'm going to kill him.

Quinn: Get in line.

…when I saved her with the football because I'm the QB!  I mean, the _other Kevin is the QB!_

Okay.  Now I remember.

So there I was fulfilling my density in life by rescuing another babe when a cop car came by.

"Are you Kevin Thompson, local hero and star quarterback of the Lawndale Lions?" he asked.  "Wow, you just saved that car from the train.  Can I have your autograph?  I can't wait to tell the missus I met you."

Cop: I'm going to kill him.

Daria: Who're you again?

"Sure thing, dude," I said.  I always liked helping the little people.  "Anything else I can do for you?"

"I just got a call from the mayor who said to find you quick.  Seems some aliens just landed in a flying saucer in the middle of town and are talking trash about taking over the entire planet unless Earth's champion can defeat their champion – so we need you again, Mr. Thompson."

Cop: I really, really want to hurt him.  A lot!

Jane: Daria, who is this guy anyway?

I got into the car and we raced into the middle of town.  In the middle of town there was a really big flying saucer on three legs.  It was all metally and stuff.  Around it were all these cool tanks and soldiers ready to shoot at the aliens who were also standing out in the open.  They were really big and ugly with tentacles and slobbering mouths behind a giant helmet.

Kronos: Ugly?  Me?  I'm going to kill him.

Daria: Okay, this is starting to get out of hand.

"Yo, general, what's up?" I asked the main dude.

Then this 20-star general runs over to me and says, "Mr. Thompson.  Your country needs you and frankly, all the world needs you now.  You're our only hope against these alien invaders.  Their leader, Kronos, says they'll pit their champion, Phobos, against our champion which is you by far.  No one else is as much a man as you, myself included."

General: I'm going to kill him.

Kronos: Get in line, human.

What was I to do?  I mean, I just couldn't let the world down.  So I did the honorable thing and walked out towards the slobbering aliens.

Jane: You think he knows a few things about slobbering?  He's used that word a couple times.

Brittany: Don't get me started.

"Yo, slobbering aliens!  I'm the QB!  I'll take on your champion!" I said.

So then this really big and ugly alien called Phobos came down the ramp.  He was big and ugly all right.

"Puny human," said the ugly slobbering alien.  "I'll destroy you and then your world."

"Talk's… um… discounted!"

So then the ugly alien swatted me with a tentacle.  I went flying towards a tank but fortunately my excellent conditioning broke my fall.

Quinn: It was probably his head.

Daria: You took my line.

I got up and said, "You call that a hit?  I've been tackled worse than that!  C'mon, dude, you can do better than that!"

So then the ugly alien came charging at me and I sidestepped out of the way.  Then I picked up some footballs as he turned around and started throwing them towards him.  I'd taken a few lumps so far but I didn't want to take anymore since I had a big game next week.  It was over in minutes since the big ugly slobbering alien didn't have my QB skills (hey, did I mention, I'm the QB!).  Several well-thrown footballs to the alien's stomach knocked him out and that was that.  Earth was saved.

"Oh, Kevin," said another hot chick.  "You're so manly and everything I could want in a man.  Dump your girlfriend and go out with me!"

"No way, babe.  Brittany's my one and only.  Unless she gets fat or something and then I'll go out with you."

Tiffany: Did he just say I was fat?

Quinn: No, Tiffany.  He said Brittany was fat.

Brittany: I'm going to kill someone before the day is done.

And then the aliens picked up their knocked out ugly alien champion and left with their tails between their legs.  Earth was saved.  Again.  All in a day's work.

The end.  Whew.  That wasn't so hard.  Being a writer is kind of easy.

Daria: I'll kill him.

General: Get in line.

Hey, Mack Daddy!  How's it hangin'?

"I told you not to call me that!"

Sure thing, Mack Daddy!  That Mack, always wanting me to call him Mack Daddy.  Now how do you turn this thi…

**CLICK**

The End 

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                                       Discussion.  What conclusions can you draw from this story?  What was the meaning you got from the story?

Aaron:                                    You mean, as it related to Kevin Thompson, the QB?

Nick:                                       Your call.

Aaron:                                    Okay.  What I got out of this was: Once a moron, always a moron.

Jane:                                       Or stupid is as stupid does.

Mrs.  Whitmore:                   Works for me.

Jane:                                       The strange thing was – I kind of got parts of the story.  I knew where he was coming from.

Geoff:                                     That girl is soooooo weird.

Nick:                                       Geoff?  You have something to add?  What did you get out of the story?

Geoff:                                     Not much.  The guy rambled all over the place.  I thought it was interesting that Daria got him to zone out when she went on about pigskin-Latin but other than that, it did nothing for me.

Elizabeth:                               I guess that explains why Brittany wasn't ready to lay her life down on the line for Kevin in her story.

Jane:                                       I hadn't thought of that.

Elizabeth:                               So what was his artifact?

Aaron:                                    Three guesses.

Geoff:                                     A football?

Jane:                                       Too easy.  Try again.

Bob:                                        A signed picture of himself?

Aaron:                                    Give the man a gold card!  He left behind a signed picture of himself.

Mrs.  Whitmore:                   That would be Kevin all right.

Nick:                                       Excuse me?

Mrs.  Whitmore:                   Nothing, Nicholas.  Continue on.

Nick:                                       So who is Kevin Thompson?  What did you find out?

Aaron:                                    Well, he went to college, somehow graduated, got into the NFL and had a lackluster career riding the bench as a 3rd-string QB on multiple teams that all went to and won the superbowl.  I guess you could say that being a 3rd-string QB was a bad thing.

Jane:                                       But being on the team that won the Superbowl was a good thing.

Aaron:                                    That seemed to typify his life based on the articles Jane found.  For instance.  NASA bought into Brittany's theory that Kevin was lucky based on the amount of stupidity he picked up.  So they scheduled him to go up on a shuttle mission.  He was training on the shuttle when he pressed some buttons that started the launch sequence.  Since the shuttle was still secured in the hangar instead of the flight pad, it exploded.  That was bad.

Jane:                                       However, Kevin and all the other personnel had ample time to get to safety shelters prior to the explosion and they lived.  That was good.

Aaron:                                    However, since NASA was stripped to the bones with finances, that little disaster sent them into the red and they started to close operations.  And that was bad.

Jane:                                       However, the resulting PR on the shuttle accident almost claiming the life of all-American hero and football star QB of the Detroit Lions led to a backlash against congress for nickel and dime-ing NASA which consequently led to renewed funding for the space agency so they could work on getting manned expeditions to Mars.  And that was good.

Mrs.  Whitmore:                   That was Kevin on the shuttle?  I didn't pay any attention to that when it happened.

Jane:                                       Anyway, Kevin dated and eventually married a model.  That was good.

Aaron:                                    On his wedding night, he and his bride went on a cruise in the Florida Keys.  After apparently celebrating with the Champagne a little too much, he took the wheel of the private yacht they were on in order to, ah, "impress my really hot babe-wife," according to a Miami newspaper article.  He spun the wheel a few times and accelerated out only to hit another ship.  That was bad.

Jane:                                       The ship belonged to the Mayor of Miami at the time.  That was really, really bad.

Aaron:                                    Then the Coast Guard showed up and found 200 kilos of cocaine on the rammed ship and arrested the mayor for involvement with known criminals.  Kevin was recognized with an outstanding citizen's award a month later.  And that was good.

Nick:                                       Anything else?

Jane:                                       Oh, yeah.  Kevin won 26 million dollars in California's lottery when he was in college.  That was good.

Aaron:                                    Kevin lost 26 million dollars due to con artists knowing an easy mark when they saw one.  That was bad.

Jane:                                       Kevin got a 5 million dollar signing bonus when he entered the NFL.  That was good.

Aaron:                                    Kevin lost 5 million dollars due to the same con artists coming by for try number two.  That was bad.  Again.

Jane:                                       Kevin won another 6 million dollar lottery in Illinois.  That was good.  Again.

Aaron:                                    Kevin lost another 6 million dollars when the aforementioned con artists came back.  He was then profiled on Sick Sad World.  That was bad.  Again.

Jane:                                       Kevin eventually moved to California in the summer of 2018.  That was bad.

Aaron:                                    The con artists, travelers and grifters who had come to know Kevin as an easy mark and followed him all over the country in a convoy of RV's, campers and unpaid hotel bills also moved to California in the summer of 2018 but didn't survive the greater-LA quake.  And according to many law enforcement agencies, that was good.

Jane:                                       Kevin did survive, which was debatable for good or bad.

Bob:                                        But what does all that have to do about Kevin's missing money?

Aaron:                                    A year later when the dead were finally all totaled up and identified, the Feds presented Kevin with another check for 7 million dollars just for being a darn good guy.  According to what we could find with the F.O.I.A., they then set up surveillance on him and have since apprehended over 4,000 con artists and scammers who are looking for an easy score with a dope like that Kevin Thompson.

Bob:                                        They used him as bait.

Jane:                                       That they did.

Nick:                                       Any more?

Jane:                                       There's a mountain of stuff I didn't go through.  This was the most recognizable stuff I could find.

Nick:                                       So where is Kevin now?

Aaron:                                    We're not sure.  His location is being kept secret.  The Feds dropped their surveillance on him during the VLS scare of the 30's and didn't resume it.  He disappeared sometime during the investigations and hasn't been seen since.  I set up a program to monitor news events globewide to track any sort of "luck" criteria, but nothing's come up yet.  I'll probably have to narrow the parameters of the search.

Mrs.  Whitmore:                   If you find a hit, let me know.  That Kevin sounds like…

Nick:                                       A nutcase?

Aaron:                                    A waste of human skin?

Jane:                                       A blockhead?

Colin:                                      Isn't that trademarked?

Jane:                                       Quiet, you.

Elizabeth:                               Rich?

Mrs.  Whitmore:                   All of the above.

Diane:                                     What about that reference in the video about the yearbook and in the story about the page?  What was that?

Aaron:                                    I checked out the yearbook and found an artsy-fartsy.

Diane:                                     What the heck's an artsy-fartsy?

Aaron:                                    It appears that Daria's friend, Jane, integrated several pictures together showing a compressed school and streets of Lawndale with drawings of students.  There wasn't much to go from.

Bob:                                        Did you scan it?

Aaron:                                    Sure.  Here it is.

The electronic blackboard shows the picture.

Bob:                                        Hmmm.  Could you manipulate it so that the picture is broken into thirds and the middle third is removed?   Then merge the remaining ends?

Aaron:                                    Sure.

Aaron manipulates the picture to remove the middle third and match up the two end pieces.  A new picture shows Kevin being mauled by lions who have escaped from a circus trailer which was hit by a bus.

Aaron:                                    How did you know to do that?

Bob:                                        Hey, MAD Magazine lives, okay.  Check out a back cover sometime.

Nick:                                       Good catch, Bob, and good work, you two.  Okay, we're ending early since the material on Kevin wasn't that extensive.  Who wants to go next?  Jon?  Rich – you two ready to go?  Good enough.

_NEXT:                                   Sandi's story: Death Is No Release – For Daria! _

Contact me if you want:

jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by Steven A.  Brown, all rights reserved.  No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).  

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios.  This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright.  

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed.  Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you.  A coincidence!  To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon.  This is not and could never be real.  Or could it?  I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	6. Sandi's Story Death Is No Release For D...

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!**

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                                       Okay, we've covered four authors so far – Jane Lane, Brittany Taylor, Tiffany Blum-Deckler and Kevin Thompson.  Today we're discussing Sandi Griffin and her story.  Jon, Rich?

Jon:                                         We're going to do a little something different on this story.  When we first got it, we found two files – the original story and the original story with a new ending by the original author.

Diane:                                     Isn't that one and the same?

Jon:                                         Not really as we found out.  

Rich:                                       We were able to piece together what happened and we'll insert some video footage from the Li years to fill in the gaps.  You'll understand when we get there.  

Jon:                                         What we wanted to do was show you the whole story as it's more interesting than the individual components.  Here goes.

DEATH IS NO RELEASE – FOR DARIA

**by Sandi Griffin**

**Ah-heh-hem!**

**oh yeah, and by that Ted DeWitt-Clinton geek**

**(transcribed by: Steven A. Brown)**

The day started on a sour note, so I slammed down a shot of sour whiskey and waited for the landlord to quit spitting in my face.

"Whatdaya mean you don't have my money?!" she yelled less than two feet from my ears.

"Business has been down a bit," I replied, savoring the taste of the liquor.  The way my luck was running, the booze was bound to be the highlight of my day.

"Morgendorffer, you'll be out on your decaying ass by the end of the day if I don't get my back rent!  You owe me $200 and I want my money!"  Her name was Esmirilda Tobias Christians.  A pretty enough name, unfortunately it was attached to a 315 year-old bat who couldn't control her saliva motors.

I didn't doubt her for a second; I would most likely be on my ass tonight following a drinking binge anyway.  The only problem was that if she kicked me out, I wouldn't have anyplace to store my stuff.  And since I died 40 years ago, I'd become the epitome of the word materialistic.  Wouldn't Quinn have been proud.

"And don't think paying your back rent will get you off the hook, sister!  Look at your office!  It's a dump!  I've seen better kept radioactive waste dumps!  Why don't you sleep at your apartment instead of on the couch?!"

I wiped her spittle off my face.  I didn't have my apartment anymore — how do you think I could afford my drinking binges?  Then I went to my desk, sat, opened a drawer and grabbed a dry handkerchief.  My hand brushed over a loaded Colt .45 and I considered pulling it out and plugging the ol' bat, but since she was already dead, it would have been a wasted effort.  All the bullet would probably have done was inconvenience her as it ripped through her remaining anatomy and embedded itself into the wall behind her.  Heck, she probably would have been more bent over the slug in the wall than another hole in her spine.  Stupid ol' bat.

"Well, Morgendorffer, when am I going to get my cash?!  The afterlife is getting pretty crowded these days, and if you won't pay any rent, I'll find someone who can!"

There went my second handkerchief.  "Rent's not due 'till tomorrow," I said flatly, nudging my hat back just a bit so I could see her reaction..

"As if you'll get a client by then, shamus!"

On cue, as if this were a badly written story from an ill-read writer, a 30's looking looker waltzed into the office.  He didn't dance; he glided over the floorspace with fluid movements like a smooth martini sliding its way down towards my gullet.  The bat shut her face, though not out of respect.  She was awe-struck; so was I.  The dish was as easy on the eyes as they came — soft blonde hair, green eyes and an angel like face with an unbroken nose.  And more than anything, he still had all of his remaining anatomy in place.  Unlike some of those still in this office.  He was shaped like an expensively paid model and walked with a similar air of arrogance.

What he was wearing would have turned heads in my time and had her locked up in the stockades in Ms. Christians' era.  Short black jogging shorts, ankle-high socks under some running shoes, and part of a white shirt that just barely made it halfway down his chest.  I wondered if retro-fashion was back in style.  Like I cared for fashion to begin with.  This was the first time in four decades that a stiff like me actually got a rise out of a client.  The clients I usually got were, well, on average about 90% whole, with large holes marking where the remaining 10% had gone and how they had actually died.  It wasn't a pleasant experience to look at any of them, especially if they'd just recently died and hadn't started to decay yet.  We may have been in purgatory, but that didn't mean time stood still.

"Daria Morgendorffer?  My name is George Silvers, and I need your help."

"Esmirilda, slam the door on your way out."

"Don't order me around, you two-bit, stupid..."

"Blow, or I'll shoot your spinal cord out," I hissed, hefting the .45.  She left, but didn't slam the door.

"Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Silvers?"

"No thanks, I don't drink anymore.  Not since I sucked down some codeine mixed in a strawberry daiquiri."

"Is that how you died?"

"No.  While I was blacked out and probably in the process of dying, someone syringed me with a needle of air, which did a number on my brain."

The dude moved to sit down on the chair in front of my desk.  He had a nervous look to his face, as if this was unpleasant business.  Of course, it _was unpleasant business to some souls that couldn't rest unless they knew how they died and who had killed them.  That was where I came in.  Daria Morgendorffer, private eye of murder and mayhem for the recently deceased was how my ad read.  It wasn't as if I had anything else to do.  If only I hadn't picked on others as much as I had when I was alive – then I wouldn't be in this mess._

"What are you looking for, Mr. Silvers?"

"George, please.  And what I want is what everyone wants from a dead P.I.  I want you to find out who killed me."

"I don't work cheap, George.  Seventy-five a day, plus expenses."  That was an old line, one I'd begun using the day I got nailed and found out the Pearly Gates were closed to me.  I put my boot-clad feet up on the desk, leaned back in the chair, and sucked down some cigarette smoke.  It was a real Kodak-moment.

"Jesus Christ, chick!  What expenses?!" he exploded.  "In case it slipped by that miniscule gray matter residing in your remaining cranium, we're dead!  We're spooks, ghosts — i.e. not living!  We don't eat, we don't have to sleep, we don't have to do anything!"

"Except pay taxes.  And in my case, rent."

"Taxes?!" the looker asked in a tone just short of hysteria.  If I was lucky, he'd begin screaming and I'd get a chance to slap him around.  I could pretend he was Quinn or better yet, Quinn with a bad hair-day and too much testosterone.  'Course, I lost a lot of clients that way, but it was kind of fun going back to those happy memories.

George seemed to tense up a bit.  He sure didn't seem to have any of the right stuff that people from older generations had.  He seemed like he was going to start hollarin' or somehow start throwin' a fit.  Personally, I'd always thought those touchy-feely seminars to find your inner child was a complete waste of time and now I had the proof.  Lucky me.

I got up and quickly came around the desk to stand in front of him, not wanting to miss any of the action.  Especially since I knew I'd be starting it.

He sucked in a lungful of air.

I smacked him one across the chops.  His eyes bugged out as if I'd just shot him.  I guess he didn't get smacked enough when he was alive.  I smacked him again.

"That was to get your attention," I said.

He looked like he was going to smack me back.  I tell you, I hated that chivalry was dead.  So I smacked him instead.

"Ow!  What was that for?" he whined.

"That was a pre-emptive smack.  Don't go spaz on me, got it?"

He didn't "got it" and was out of his chair in a flash.  He picked me up and threw me over my desk and against the wall.  So that was the way he wanted to play it, eh?

I watched him come around the desk, his lungs heaving with frustration.  I could relate – I'd been there when I'd first shown up here.  Only I just didn't have the physique to do much rough stuff.

I kicked his shins and his feet went out from underneath him.  I took that time to get up and reach in my drawer.  He was a little faster than me and slammed the door shut on my wrist, breaking it.  So much for ending this with a minimum of pain.

With my hand stuck in the drawer, I kicked him again, this time in his viagra-chapel and this time he went down and stayed there, his eyes watering as he curled up on the floor.  I pulled my wrist free of the drawer and sure enough, it was broken.  It stung a bit but that was the great thing of decay, after 40 years, you didn't feel much in your neurons any longer.  I twisted it around so it was looking correct and it was functional once again.  You'd think that in all this time I could find out why some parts of me healed and some didn't – but truth be told, I really didn't care.

As pretty-boy groaned on the floor, I thought back to my last case three weeks back.  It was an old lady in her 80's who'd been snuffed out by her ex.  She'd lived through the 30's and 40's (that was the 2030's and 2040's) and had a good understanding of her place in the grand scheme of things growing up in Japan's hectic revival of the family first motif.  She hadn't wanted to be here any more than any of the others I'd met over the years.  All of them had a spaz-out now and then but none of them were as bad with the tension as George here.

"Yo, George, when did you die?" I asked.

"…urrrrggghhhh…."

"I forgot to tell you that I wear steel-tipped boots, pal.  Anyway, what year did you die in?"

"…urrrrggghhhh… 2052…"

"Yeah, I kind of figured it'd gotten around to the 2050's by now.  Now let me give you some background on the afterlife – Purgatory Division.  Your soul is in a 50-50 blend of good and evil.  You're neither damned or saved, and until your karma shines or is soiled, you're stuck in this lousy existence, making the best you can.  But if I were you, I wouldn't look at it like you're waiting for something to fall on your head.  Purgatory is the place you go if you have some sins to atone before entering Heaven.  If you were destined go to the Big-H you'd go there directly; you don't go to Purgatory first.  That means the higher powers think you're worth saving.  Just don't screw it up.

"Now, you're having a hard time accepting anything since you don't have all the answers.  That's understandable and that's where I come in."

"So you're saying you know how to… urrrgggghhhh… save my soul?" he asked, getting up and planting himself in my chair very gingerly.

"Not really.  If I knew how to save a soul, I'd have been out of here a long time ago.  I'd suggest asking a priest, but you won't find one in this existence.  And souls I've talked to don't know either – you just do what you can and hope for the best.  And when you've crossed the line in either direction, you fade from this existence.  And believe me that can be really annoying when it's your waitress fading while bringing you coffee.  No, all I can do is find you the answers you're looking for and from that, you can either move on or not.  Your choice."

George sat motionless, taking his death in for the first time.  All my clients did.  I just hoped that I didn't have to put him in his place again.  Not that he didn't deserve it after breaking her wrist and all, but I was actually starting to like this poor schmo the way you take to a rain-soaked cat.  Besides, I needed the case to get my landlord off my back.

George loosened up after I got him to take a couple swigs of whisky.  He told me the particulars as best he could remember.  He went for a run on the morning of August 20th, 2052.  He ended up at his agent's boat in San Diego.  Turns out pretty-boy was a Sunday ads model for a department store chain.  I didn't bother listening to which one.  He said he and the agent were going over ads for the next shoot which began a couple weeks down the road.  He took some bad liquor and started going out.  Then he noticed the agent motioning with his hands and another person come out of the boat with a syringe.  He then woke up in a hospital morgue and heard the doctors talking about how he died.  Then he began floating and stopped at Purgatory Reception Hall 23.  From there he ignored the standard speech about doing good and instead found a phone book and looked up private eyes.  He picked me since I was within easy walking distance to the hall.  See – location does pay off.

It was time to visit the Recently Deceased List room of the local library.

*************

I made my way to the RDL room all the while rolling George's story over in my head.  How his last day alive started on a bright day in midsummer.  He had gone to spend some time with his agent on his boat in the marina.  It was midmorning when he arrived at his boat.  By noon he had gone over several campaigns and had lunch in the marina restaurant.  By early afternoon he and Sid were back at Sid's boat IMCOOL (which should have been IMVAIN) toasting acceptance of the deal over some drinks which included his favorite: Strawberry Daiquiri's.  He drank, then came the blackness, the white tunnel, a quick debriefing in a government classroom that he vegged through, and then his feeling ticked at the killing and wanting to know who did it.  Enter me.

I took his case and used the broken wrist as an excuse to gouge some more cash out of him.  He was willing to pay.  Now all he had to do was get a job and an advance once I had the answers.  I also took his case for another reason other than monetary gains.  I didn't want George to get angry and take it out again – next time instead of just hurting my hand which didn't hurt anyway, he might take it out on the furniture and that would give Esmirilda an excuse to hike the rent.  Again.

My first stop was the library.  Usually my first stop was a bar and some soothing throat medicine which I would have billed to my client as an overhead expense but in this case, time was an issue.  Usually the recently deceased would have gone to an orientation meeting, paid a little more attention than George seemed to, and be put up in some temporary housing for a month or so until he got on his feet.  As is, the next orientation meeting wasn't until another week out and since he didn't have a place to crash, he was currently residing in my office.  And if Esmirilda found out about it, there would be heck to pay.  Again.

At the library I spent the better part of six hours researching George's life.  For an average client all I would've had to do was skim their final moments to know who the killer was and then do a little background research and I'd have the motive.  Elapsed time no more than 30 minutes.  But George's case proved to take longer to solve than a book editor hitting the streets for a power lunch with his publisher.

I couldn't find his killer right off.  It wasn't listed.  That was highly unusual as the Fates kept better track of records than a mob accountant looking to skim a little of the till.  That was the second time in 40 years that had happened.  The first time had been with a client who had died in a house fire.  I had spent days researching it, days I could have been drinking.  It had been an accident which my client wanted to make sure was an accident and not murder – for his wife's sake.  They hadn't been getting along, but he didn't wish the underworld on anyone.  He was relieved.  But George's case had been poison.  That wasn't natural, unless you ate the fish in Japan.

I did find George's death mentioned in an article near the back of the Entertainment section of a Hollywood rag.  The article mostly centered on his agent and stated that George's agent, one Charles Ruttheimer (the Fates surely had it in for me – I just knew it) had died as well and been cleared of any wrongdoing.  The police were ruling it an accident.  A crosscheck on FATE.COM showed him heading towards Heaven when he died – imagine that, he'd actually worked with an honest agent.  He wasn't the killer or his karma would have pointed him to H-E-double hockey sticks.  

(Why don't I swear?  Well, being on the border of good and evil, I didn't feel like taking any chances.)

This wasn't good.  Not only was the only witness to George's death also dead, but FATE.COM was showing clear signs it was faulty.  I mean, c'mon, Charles Ruttheimer going to Heaven and I'm stuck in Purgatory?  There was some fishy soul business here and I needed to find out more on it.  It was going to take more digging to come up with a suspect.

Over the next two days I combed through George's entire life and came up with zero!  Nada!  Nix!  Nothing!  This was certainly not the easy case I was expecting.  There was only one thing left to do – and it certainly wasn't giving the retainer back.  It was time to visit the crime scene on Earth.  Finally, the big case I'd waited four decades for to take me back.  It wasn't just anybody who could go back – only those on official business.  And this counted.

*************

A few feet from the steps of the PTO – the Purgatory Transition Office I encountered Jon.  He'd been around the place for years and years selling hotdogs.  Or whatever they called hotdogs these days.  "Yo, Jon," I said.

"'Lo, Daria," he replied, his eyes not meeting mine.  They never had.  His grin was infectious though.

"One with the works.  Is credit okay again?"

"Sure thing, Daria," he grinned.  He got to work and within moments I had my bland tasting dog with its bland tasting mustard goo-ing out the ends of it.

"Why you still here, kid?" I asked him while quickly shoving the gooey mess into my mouth.  It was the same question I always asked him.  He shouldn't have been here.  There were some people here who you can tell certainly need to be here for a bit but he wasn't one of them.  He was a really nice kid who should have gone to Heaven at the front of the bus.  I didn't have any idea why he was relegated to the big P, but since I wasn't paid to look into these things, I didn't ask.  I wondered if it had anything with a glitch in FATE.COM's server.

"Dunno, Daria.  I s'pect someone knows."  That was his standard answer as well.

I don't know why I bothered to eat this crap.  It wasn't like I was hungry to eat bland food.  Heck, I wasn't hungry at all.  But old habits were difficult to give up.

"Same time tomorrow, Daria?"

"You got it, Jon.  You have a good day, y'hear."

"Okay, Daria.  You have a good day too."

Entering the PTO building I saw everything I expected – lots of government people diligently working on archaic typewriters and typing in triplicate.  Near as I could tell, they'd been doing this since the beginning of time.

"Fudge!" 

Steady, thoughtful fingers slowly plinked individual keys.  Rows and rows of typists worked in here.  It looked as if time stopped in the 40's here – the 1940's that is.  You could just smell the dust and carbon paper smell on everything.

"Nuts!" came the sound of someone who'd made a mistake and would have to do whatever typing they were doing all over again.

"Dang-it-all!"

The powers that be (who they were, I wasn't sure – I'd never met them, but the fact that Purgatory existed in this state meant someone knew something) could have modernized everything to get it online and computer ready but for some reason they never did.  Heaven was computerized but not this cesspool.  Even the big H had its own network but for some reason Purgatory languished in obscurity.

In short order I met with Jonathan Smithy, the head camper in charge of the PTO, Earth recon division.  I sat in his office on an even older chair than I kept for visitors in my office which I only kept because I didn't like visitors to stay long and was why I used an old chair – plenty of splinters.  Jonathan must've had the same philosophy.

"Whatdaya want, Morgendorffer?  I'm busy."  Tact was never a strong characteristic for Jonathan.  Not that he needed it.

"I like all the new typewriters you gave the staff outside.  What are they – Royal electrics?  Waxed-based ribbons, right?"  In case I hadn't made it plain, I was trying to sound sarcastic.

(**Transcriber's Note**: this was actually my cheesy-ass high school graduation present.  My sister got a car.)

Jonathan didn't bother to look up.  "Thanks.  I got them at auction.  Sure beats carving up a tablet any day.  Can  you believe the government was actually going to recycle them?"

"As a matter of fact, I could.  Anyway, I need a body."

That got his attention.

His eyebrows didn't twitch and his breathing (if you could call it that) evened out.  He looked at me and said, "Anyone in particular?  Or are you just fishin' to see what we might have in stock?"

"I want my body."

"Any reason why?  Or do you plan on just rising from the dead and walking the halls of Earth once again?  Please, take all the time you want to answer since I'm sure it'll be a doozy comin' from you."

Jonathan and me kind of had some history.  I guess he didn't like it when I got ahold of my body 32 years ago on his watch.  Old division chief got busted back to sector head.

"Why sure, Ms. Morgendorffer.  For you, anything.  Would you like us to wash and wax it for you as well or do you just want to wear it out of here?"

"Cut the crap, Jonathan.  I need my body and I have a legit reason.  I've already filed it with the PNOD."

"If you've already talked with those spooks, then why bother coming by and checking in with me?  Why not simply go and pick it up?"  He was actually confused.  

"I've got a bad feeling about this, Jonathan.  And I think I may need more bodies before this case is over.  Also, I wanted to see if you could have someone check into FATE.COM.  I think it's flaking out."

"You're here for a reason, Daria.  We all are.  We've gone over this a thousand…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Tell me something I don't know.  Only tell my why my client was murdered by someone not showing up on FATE."

"…I'll have someone look into it.  Here."  He handed over some legitimate travelling papers (in triplicate) and now I didn't have to wait for the PNOD to send me travelling papers through the mail (which took forever up here).

"Thanks, Jonathan.  You're aces.  I mean it."

"You can pick up your new body at Purgatory's boundary.  Just make sure you return it with a few less holes in it this time, okay?"

"C'mon, the last time was an accident.  Trust me."

"I don't trust you any more than I can throw you."

"See?  You know just the right thing to say, you old smooth talker you."

*************

I got a body – made out of condensed ectoplasm no less, but what can you do with budget crunches and all – out of storage; one molded to my spirit form and headed for Earth on a bus.  It was strange to be on the bus all by myself.  Usually it was only populated when coming back from Earth, and no passengers made the return journey.  Not normally, that was.

I arrived in an alleyway in present day San Diego.  I didn't recognize any of the landmarks or any of the cars.  Where the heck was a Ford when you needed one?  I looked down and noticed I was dressed in the same outfit when I died – including the hat, just like I was everyday in Purgatory.  I was in an unpressed, unwashed gray pantsuit wearing a grey fedora.  Food stains were apparent.

I had a couple stops to make.  The first was the local library where I wanted to research my client's death from the mortal point of view.  I looked up a location and hoofed it the two miles since Jonathan hadn't thought to include any money or plastic with this body for ground transport privileges.  Tightwad.

I made it to the library while it was still cool.  Cool for San Diego maybe, but I was sweating.  I'd forgotten that I used to do that when I was alive.  Entering, I looked for a librarian.  I spotted him easily enough from the back.  He had a slender body, a fine sandy-yellow hair with a ponytail and was wearing a loose outfit like a jogging suit.

"Hey, buddy.  How about a little service with a research project I'm working on and then afterwards you can join me in a cup of java if I find what I need?"

The librarian turned around and I noticed a couple of glowing eyes.  The nametag read: Tina.  Jeez, when did women start dressing like women again?  Mom would have been proud.  Or maybe it was grandma who would have been proud.  Any way you looked at it, times had changed.

Tina grinned and in a feminine voice to match her manicured nails and stylized hair asked,  "Is there something I can do for you, or more to the point, to you?  After all, I do get a break in another hour and I know of an out-of-the-way espresso bar."

"Look, toots, sorry for the mistake, but I mistook you for someone else."

"Oh yeah? Who?" she asked.

"A man," I answered.  

"I presumed as much," Tina laughed.  "Since you're no longer interested in picking me up, how can I help you – and hopefully this help will be quick as I have a lunch date with my husband in less than 40 minutes."

"You know, with some different clothes and a different hairdo people wouldn't take you for a surfer dude anymore."

Tina smiled, looked me over once and replied, "Tsk.  And you know, with some updated clothing choices people might think you weren't a bigoted jerk."

I knew when I wasn't going to win an argument.  "Point.  Can you show me the news articles on the deaths of George Silvers and his agent last August 20th?"

"Hmmmm.  Since the deaths happened over six months ago, the articles are probably on microfiche now.  I'll set you up with a reader."

"Huh?"

"Microfiche," Tina replied again.

"Huh?  What the heck is microfiche?"

"What are you, a techno-elitist or something?" Tina asked, arching her eyebrow.  "Not everything runs off the internet these days, you know."

Tina showed me how to operate the microfiche machine and go through six months worth of papers.  I didn't bother wondering why it took George six months to search me out before wanting to find his killer.  That's because it didn't take him six months at all – time simply worked differently in the afterlife.  That was why I didn't bother to wear a watch.  I watched a clock tick through a minute when I first showed up in the afterlife and I didn't want to go through that again.

I found several articles on George – how he and his agent had died, along with five other people in the marina that day.  Official cause of death: food poisoning as all seven had had the fish at the local restaurant.  There was quite a bit of grieving, apologies and lawsuits, but there was no one to blame – only corporations in general.  And there was no mention of a coroner finding air bubbles in George's bloodstream.  

Great.  Just great.  The info I needed now wouldn't be found in the public sector.  This job was turning into some real work.

I needed a drink.

I just wish I had time for it.  I headed for my next stop – the marina district's resident cop shop.  I made it there in one piece despite the efforts of numerous motorists looking to run me down on the sidewalks.  I walked up the steps, a cigarette hanging from my lips and went to the front desk.

"Hey, lady, can't you read?" the desk sergeant asked, pointing to a NO-SMOKING sign above his desk.

What the heck happened to the world while I was away?  Now I can't smoke?  I just couldn't win.

I also didn't learn anything from the flatfoots other than they were a bunch of non-smoking, anti-sugar, politically correct, obsessively polite idiots!  Give me a bunch of doughnut hoarding semi-corrupt intelligent goons with badges any day – even though you couldn't trust them, you could usually bribe the info out of them.  These palookas didn't want to hear any theory that threatened their neat little accidental death report.  Lazy bas.....slobs.  I meant to say slobs.  Yeah, that's it.

So out the doors I went towards my next destination.

The less said about that the better.  Simply put, the boat was no help at all.  It had been sold, redecorated and infested with little monsters.  Other people called them kids.  What other type of kids were there?  Whatever evidence could have been found was long since destroyed.  That left the marina restaurant.

*************

I opened the doors and walked into the restaurant.  The headwaiter snubbed his nose at me (no real surprise there) while pointing to the NO SMOKING sign.  The owner must've been related to that desk sergeant.  I sighed and put out the cig on a wall, causing some snobs to put their noses up on the air as well, which was odd if they were health conscientious, why would they be trying to inhale the fumes (in some cases like gasping fish) instead of disdaining the act of smoking.  This time period was weird.  Oh well.

I recalled the ritual of eating good food, which caused me to salivate as it had been 40 years since I'd had a decent hoagie – Purgatory did have food stalls, but he food was only a simulacrum of real food – there was no taste, no calories – really, no life.  I just had to get a steak before going back to the big "P".  I'd probably end up having to wash dishes to pay for it, but it would be worth it.  Especially if my body plasmed out while washing and my spirit zipped back up.  The headwaiter reluctantly sat me at a table near the constantly opening kitchen doors, probably figuring I'd get annoyed at the activity and leave.  I was made of sterner stuff than to quit when I got annoyed.  After all, I was a private dick, a shamus.  And besides, the scent was great after all this time of not smelling anything like it.

"Oh, like, y'know, wow.  Bitchin' suit, babe," my waiter gabbed, bringing me out of my thoughts.  "Like, totally rad and, um… what was that word I was learning about the other day in history class?"

"Bodacious?" I supplied.

"Right!  Are you a new wave setter?" he asked with vacant eyes like that of a fresh corpse in designer jeans.

The aura of life surrounded him, but that was the only spark of life.  There was only one sure way to talk to these living dead.  "Steak sandwich.  Rare.  Double scotch.  No ice.  Extra tip if you leave now and work hard before you bum me out, dude."

"Excellent choice, babe.  And what was that?  Double tip?  Bitchin'."  He vamoosed with my order.

Vernacular from around my time now being taught in history class?  I was old.

In short order he came bouncing back with my sandwich and about 30 bottles of topping sauces, any of which could rust steel.  I took the sandwich plain and savored the sensation of eating grain, onion, dead cow flesh and bitter almond...?  What was that?  Bitter almond?!  Codeine.  "Plaugh!" I spat out the sandwich much to a kid monster's delight who mimicked me and had the snot beaten out of him by an angry mother.  It was good to see some things hadn't changed.

I stormed into the kitchen and noticed the demon right away – he being all red with two horns sticking out from under his chef's hat.  As part of the spirit world, I could see things mortals couldn't, such as a demon cook in a swank restaurant.  The same was true for humans who could see a joke setup a mile away while yours truly would blunder into it.  However, getting back to the subject at hand, a demon was a demon no matter whose apron he wore.

There was no easy way to tackle a demon, especially one invisible to humans while working in plain sight.  But I tried my best by grabbing a skillet, sneaking up behind him and giving him brain job that must have hurt – even to him.  The other workers reacted in terror; the demon was wearing a disguise and it looked as if I had just walloped one of their friends.  Not that I cared.  I had my hands full with a red, smoldering, fumes coming out of the ears of an angry demon. 

"Oh crap," I heard myself say as the demon grabbed a pan of frying fish and flung its contents at me.

I slid under a mobile tray, pushing the dishes and dinners to the floor in a loud crash but better it than me.  I just couldn't stand the smell of cooked fish on me for another 40 years.

I came out the other side of the mobile tray and found some convenient silverware and began flinging knives, forks, salad forks and spoons (including teaspoons) at the demon.  They all missed, except for one teaspoon which actually hit him in the eye with a subtle "poink".

That made him mad.

On the plus side, since I was already dead, he couldn't hurt me.  Well, at least not too much.

He grabbed a handful of flour and whipped it towards me and I lost sight of him since my vision was clouded by white.  I found out where he went once he punched me in the gullet.  

The punch knocked the wind out me and me out of the kitchen and back into the dining room.  I'm pretty sure I didn't startle the guests since I was pretty sure they'd heard all the fighting over the past minute or so.

I grabbed a basket of bread and butter off a table and whipped it at the demon chef as he came out the doors.  He knocked it aside but I was expecting that.  I then grabbed some more butter and threw it at him but he knocked it aside as well.

"I'm sorry I dropped the lunch, sir!  It was an accident!  I was only trying to get it to the customer so it would be fresh!  Please don't hit me anymore!" I quivered.

"Hey, don't beat up the waitstaff!" someone yelled from the audience. 

"Marvin, are you beating the help again?"

"They beat the waiters here?  Stephanie, get your things and let's go.  I'm not eating here."

"Hey!"  

"Why don't you beat up someone your own size." 

"You suck!" came more cries.

The demon chef stopped in his tracks and looked around at the dazed audience now turned against him.  

Sucker.

He was right over me so I let him have it with both boots.  Thank God my body came with my original steel-toed boots.

He dropped like a sack of mushy potatoes, similar to George at the beginning of this story.  But he recovered faster.  I got off the floor and put him in a chokehold.  He flexed his shoulders and I went backwards.

I got back up, grabbed an object he had dropped and was on his back again a moment later.  This time I grabbed his left horn with my left hand and smacked him in the face with the frying pan with my other hand.  That got his attention.  "Invoke the oath of surrender or else," I ordered.

"Or else what?" he grumbled.

I hated it when I had to come up with an answer to that.  Fortunately I had a frying pan.  WHAM!  "Do it!"

"Not this time, you mook," he groused and then disappeared into smoke.

Crap.  I got up, still holding the frying pan and the demon's left horn, which couldn't disappear since possession was nine/enths the law.  Like I said, I couldn't avoid a joke setup if my afterlife depended on it.

A demon working as a cook was unusual, even in the afterlife.  A codeine-steak sandwich.  No coincidence this time around.  The case had just gotten more complicated, and I needed help.  I heard sirens in the distance.  It was time to head back home.

*************

"Well, well, as I don't live and don't breathe.  It's Daria Morgendorffer.  Going for the traditional ghost look now?"

Getting back to Purgatory hadn't been hard since all I had to do was think of a bland existence and blammo, there you were, just outside the PTO.  Jonathan must've had some advance warning I was coming because he came with a couple of spirit-bruisers ready to take the body back to storage.  As for his comment, I looked down and saw all the flour still on my body.

"Not so fast with the body snatchers there, Jonathan," I said.  "We got a problem.  I need to talk to you… alone."

"Take five, fellas.  Ok, Morgendorffer, what's the scoop?"

I gave him a condensed rundown on my activities while cleaning the flour off my borrowed body.  "…so that's why I need to keep the body for a little longer.  I need another visa."

"You just came back from Earth and now you want to go again?  Why didn't you just stay there?"

"Not Earth.  I need to go to Heaven."

"And just who are you going to see there?" Jonathan asked indignantly.

"Well, since I really don't know anybody up there, I was kind of hoping you'd help me out."

"I swear, if we didn't have history together…"

"You know you still like me."

"…grummmmble… I'm such a sucker, you know that?  I don't know if I can wrangle you a pass to Heaven on your story alone.  The big boy's are going to want proof."

"How about this?" I asked, showing him the demon's horn.

*************

Heaven was a pure thought later (and believe me, it hurt) where I cut to the head of the 4-million person line (and growing) and presented my temporary visa.

"Hey, who the hell do you think you are cutting in front of us like that, you bitchhhiiiiiieeeeee… eee… ee.." someone yelled way in the back which was a big mistake as a hole appeared in the cloud he was standing on and down he went, probably towards Purgatory (if he were lucky) where he could learn the error of his ways or the error of his big mouth before returning here again.  Someday.

I had to say this for Heaven.  It sure was bright.  Probably because it was closer to the sun or son.  Take your pick.

I went to the St. Peter's Plaza where St. Peter had the top 2 floors of a 45,715 floor high rise.  His receptionist informed me that St. Peter was at an all-Saints convention with the other Saints in town.  The location was a secret.  Sorry.  A busybody from the word go yet not around when you needed him.  Typical.

Walking out of the building I noticed some people gathered around a redheaded camper waving a sign which stated, "Elect Me!"  To kill some time before being ejected from Heaven, I went over to the commotion.  Besides, I'd heard the word Saint used several times.  The three people milling about looked at me, my grey PI clothes (it was probably my hat that gave me away) compared to their white robes, stuck up their noses and walked off.

I ignored them while reading the other signs the do-gooder wannabe had.  "Christopher - Once A Saint, Always A Saint" was accompanied by, "You Could Do Worse".  

"Elect me as your next saint," the happy camper (Christopher, I guess) said to the departing souls.  "Aw, crud."  Then, "Oh!"  He noticed me.  He smiled and then noticed my clothes.  It was true in Heaven that clothes made the woman.  The smile faded.  

"What are you doing here, Purgatory-woman?" he asked me in a some sort of holier-than-thou voice.

"Looking for a Saint, but it appears they're all away attending a convention."

"Not all!" cried Chris, handing me a leaflet describing his plight.  "Here, read this.  It tells you how I was once a Saint, but now I'm not because some mortals couldn't find the proof of my sainthood and thereby stripped me of the title.  Lousy bastards."

"Hey, how come you can swear, but not get fined or fired?"

He grinned.  "Saints, even ex-Saints, are given some leeway up here, shamus.  But you know, maybe we can help each other.  You need help, and I need a nomination to get my sainthood back."

"But I'm not in Heaven," I stated the obvious.  "And I certainly can't do anything in Purgatory."

"Correct, you're not in Heaven.  Not yet.  But I'm willing to take any risk here, even a long shot."

"What the heck," I said.  I didn't have anything else to lose, so I told Chris the story, ending it up by producing my solid evidence – the demon horn.

"Holy shit, shamus.  You weren't kidding when you said you needed help on this.  If what you're saying is true, then some demons have violated the Heaven/Hell Charter of Non-Interference.  And with all the Saints out of town, there isn't anyone around to pass the buck up to an Angel."

"I take it that's not something an ex-Saint can do?"

"You take it right.  Being an ex-Saint doesn't mean I still have access to the Angel hotline.  I hate to tell you this, but I think there's only one thing left for you to do."

He hated to tell me that?  I hated to listen to it.  It was the last thing I wanted to do.

*************

One bland thought was all it took to find myself standing outside the PTO building.  I looked up and saw its motto branded on the front of the building.  "Abandon All Privacy, Ye Who Enter".  That was a motto only a government could dream up.  I've known some of the poor souls who've had to work their stint in here and they were mean.  I thought I was mean until I ran into Floyd …somethingorother at a bar about 28 years ago.  He gave me a run for my money.

While I had to book time and get clearance, all Purgatory government souls had direct access to the FATE.NET, as well as all up-to-the-minute dated history files on anyone who walked in.  Apparently they didn't like to waste time with a client hedging about his business.  They also liked to know all about the client, so as to keep him or her off balance during fee negotiations, job listings or any of a thousand other things they claimed to offer besides headaches.  You would have thought that bankers would have either ended up in Heaven or Hell – not in a wishy-washy Purgatory!  Darn slobs.

As I entered the PTO I noticed that there had been some changes while I was away – the air conditioners used to cool the building were gone and instead each desk had a little fan that seemed to rotate once per minute at high speed.  Who said technology was dead?

I'd only been in Heaven about a couple hours my time but down here days had gone by.  Hope George remembered to feed my dead goldfish.  Or barring that, at least pay the darn rent on the office.

Time was tricky in the afterlife.  I could never keep track of what time it was since it changed all the time.  A month could go by on Earth and only an hour go by here.  But the reverse was also true – depending.  And Monday's were the worst since they seemed to drag on for eternity.  I tried to sleep through Monday's whenever possible.

"You're wearing out that body, you know," Jonathan said as I walked into his office.  His bully-boys were still there, still waiting for the body.  It was going to feel good to ruin his day.

"I need the body for a bit longer.  This case has just gone to Hell."

"Hey, watch the language already.  No sense bringing down trouble when you don't need it."

"No, Jonathan, I mean it in the literal sense.  I need to go to Hell for the next leg of this trip."

"Jeez, Daria, that's rough.  Alright, you can keep the body a few days longer.  But keep in mind, the cleaning bill on it is coming out of your pay.  Here's a pass."

"Thanks."

I took the Lord's name in vain.  That was all it took for a hole to open up under me and I slid downwards, finally landing on my rump.  I got up and noticed that I was on a dark highway – well, mostly dark since the horizon line had a reddish tint to it.  There were a few other folks.  I got in line behind them and before too long a pair of bright eyes showed up.  As it closed in on us I saw that it was a bus.  It slowed, stopped, and opened its doors.  The crowd surged forward.  I was last on and showed the driver my pass.  He scratched his head in wonderment and shoved his thumb towards the back of the bus.

Typical.  

While on the bus I thought over what Chris had said.

Chris really didn't have any power left and the angel gangs weren't a real help because of management difficulties with the unions.  But a demon working in the mortal plane was really, really, _really against the rules; it was possible the demon was freelancing where he shouldn't have been.  If that was the case, then the big cheese of H-E-Double Hockey Sticks should be made aware of it.  To break the contract would invite heavy retaliation that the underworld's big cheese wouldn't want.  Or so he said.  I just wondered how much clout to give an ex-Saint and all._

The bus ride was long and we stopped for more souls on the way.  I didn't want to think about it.  By the end of the trip, the ride could be summed up in one word: Bumpy.

It seemed like it took forever since we stopped every few miles for more souls but eventually we drove past the gates and instantly night became day …and the temperature increased.  The bus drove about another mile and then pulled over next to a little shack.  There were no souls waiting but the doors were opened.

The door on the shack slammed open and five demons sprinted towards the bus, all wearing red fatigues, specially designed boots to cover the traditional hoofs, and neatly pressed hats, each with two holes to allow the forehead horns to extrude unencumbered.

"Alright you maggot sucking little pieces of crud!!  Move it off this bus!  You!  Why aren't you moving?!!  Go, go, go!!"

"Um, sir, there's got to be some mistake," a timid soul said.

Bad move as the demon grabbed the poor soul's head, twisted it around 180 degrees and yelled, "Any other mistakes on this bus?  No?!  Then get moving!"

The bus exploded as the souls all tried to get off the bus before someone or something twisted their heads around.  It didn't matter if they were quick off the bus or not.  The demons were swearing over the souls like bees swarming over a hive – they were doing it constantly and with enthusiasm.  Strangely enough, it reminded me of my boot camp drill sergeants.

I waited until the rest of the souls were off the bus and standing in line.  That kept the others busy and then I lit a cigarette and walked off the bus.

A demon raced over to me and swore in my face.  "You took your own *@#%$#*&!! time getting off the *@#%$#*&!!**!!#&!! bus!"  His breath was very hot.

I blew some smoke in his face which he seemed to like, sniffing out residual nicotine like those poor diners back on Earth.

The bus started its motor and when I turned to see where it was going, it was gone and in its place was a boat with a figure pushing it out to the middle of the river which had also replaced the highway.  Hmmm.

"Where's the bus going?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter where it's going since you won't every be leaving HELL, toots!" the demon sneered in my face.  His breath was still hot.

"That's what you think, pal," I said, shoving the bus pass into the demon's face.

His eyes lost some of its yellow color and went big and oval as it read the pass.  "Hey, Joey, Jeffy, Zuin, Alberto!  Over here!  We got us a situation!"

The other demons ceased harassing the souls and sprinted over to the demon in front of me.  They crowed around his shoulders and read, with agonizingly slowness, the pass.  Finally, they finished the sentence and looked up as one towards me.  That was not a pretty site any way you looked at it.

"How do we know this isn't a forgery?" Hell-Alberto asked.

"Try to rip it," I replied.

He tried and had no luck.  Purgatory paper wasn't worth its weight for much, but official Purgatory paper was worth every cent Jonathan paid for it since he usually bought Angel overstock which was unbreakable by a demon.

The demon's demeanor changed immediately.  "Golly, gee, the lady is correct – she will be leaving the underworld domain in short order.  Jamie, get her a chair!  Joey, get her a pillow!  Zuin, contact the garage for a ride for the lady.  Jeffy, you go and watch those other bastards."

"Our apologies, miss," Hell-Zuin said before running to the shack.

"Wait a minute," I said, lighting another cancer stick and snapping closed my lighter, "what happened here?  Where's your foul tempers and cursing mouths?"

Hell-Alberto took the time to look sheepish.  "Oh, that - well, ma'am, that's our job to be mean and cruel.  And having to do it millennia after millennia, well, I needn't tell you that it can take its toll on someone.  That's why one takes the opportunity to be polite when one can.  Is there anything we can do for you?  Soft drink?"

Stunned, I asked, "How about a ride to Hell-Hall?"

"Absolutely, miss.  I'll see that Zuin makes all the arrangements.  Ah, Jamie and Joey are back.  Here, you just sit here until the ride comes.  It's awfully hot down here and I wouldn't want you to get ill on my watch.  Let me see if I can find you a cool drink.  Lemonade okay?"

I nodded and he took off.  The others smiled at me, not with demon grins but with a polite smile of a butler or a chauffeur.  I sat back in amazement.  It was a little unsettling.  It was an old chair but a comfortable fit since it seemed as if no one used it.  It was definitely comfortable which was good since it was also definitely hot and borrowed body or no, I was starting to feel the heat.

The tormented souls stood at attention on the black asphalt and whenever one of them moved, Hell-Joey or Hell-Jeffy or Hell-Jamie or Hell-Zuin (or all of them together) produced a steel-whip and began flaying that soul.  I had to avert my eyes.  There wasn't anything I could do for the soul.  I knew that but it didn't mean I didn't feel each whip-slice.

Hell-Alberto brought me a lemonade with ice even.  That was nice.  I sipped it as he ordered Hell-Zuin to double-time the damned out of my sight as it was "bothering the nice lady," as he put it.  He complied by first running back into the shed to get me another pillow before whipping the damned behind a nearby mountain.

While waiting, three damned walked by – one a redhead, another with black hair, and the third a sandy-blond in pigtails.  They were each wearing a paper bag for clothing.

Pigtails walked by with her hands cupping her mouth, trying to amplify her words as she said, "I have told people about an incredible clothes closeout sale even though I wish to purchase them myself – but my card has been rejected.  What am I to do?"

The black haired woman had her hands cupping her ears as if trying to hear voices far and faint as she said, "I have heard about an incredible clothes closeout sale and wish to purchase them – but my card has been rejected.  What am I to do?"

Red's hands cupped her eyes as if holding invisible binoculars as she said, "I have located an incredible clothes closeout sale and I wish to purchase them –  but my card has been rejected.  What am I to do?"

Well dip me in honey and throw me into the second Circle of H-E-L-L.  I recognized this troupe.  It wasn't all that hard since the redhead was my sister, Quinn.  "Hey, Quinn," I greeted, waving a hand to get her attention.

"I have located an incredible clothes… oh, hey, Daria.  Okay, everyone, take five."

The two others of the troupe, presumably Stacy and Tiffany, stopped what they were doing and went to mingle with the demons nearby.

"Never thought you'd end up here."

"Well, you never know, you know.  One day I'm going along all healthy and stuff, doing an LL Bean shoot and next thing you know, you get run over by a car all because the photographer wants more realism.  Anyway, you die and just like that you end up in the 7th Circle of Hell.  Who would've thought that Dante was right after all?"

"Jeez, Quinn, that's rough," I said sympathetically.

"No kidding.  I swear, once they started getting shutterbugs coming over from Hot Rod, my career really tanked.  But at least here the working conditions never change and I've got an ironclad contract."

"Can I do anything for you?"

"You don't have any gum by chance do you?" she asked hopefully.

"Sorry.  That would've meant I gave up smoking."

Deflated, she returned, "That's okay.  So how are things in Purgatory?"

"The same as always.  Literally.  How about here?"

"Hell?  Well, the HJ's on HTV all have speech impediments and play nothing but polka, Jeopardy-Hell is nothing but reruns with categories like 'The Most Embarrassing Moment Of Your Life' or 'The First Time You DID It', and roadkill seems to populate every plate of Chez Pierre."

"They have a Chez Pierre here?"

"Of course.  It's a franchise."

"I walked into that one, didn't I?"

Quinn grinned.  "Of course.  I'm not evil for nothing, you know."

One of Quinn's compatriots yelled, "Aaaaahhhh, I'm gaining weight again, Quinn!"  Hell-Tiffany actually ballooned up to at least 800 pounds while doing nothing else but breath.  This was truly Hell for her.

Quinn smiled and we shook hands.  "Well, gotta get back to work.  No rest for the wicked and all that.  Stacy, quit hitting on that drill instructor and get back in line.  See ya, Daria.  Don't be a stranger, okay?  Ooooohhhhhh," she began to moan as Stacy broke off her conversation with the demon and fell back into line.

That was weird.

Soon enough I found myself at Hell-Hall, which was identical to the PTO only they had air conditioning instead of decades-old crappy fans.  Oh, and all the employees dressed up in 3-piece suits and had horns on their red heads, but other than that, it was identical.  They even ignored or belittled me as I walked through their offices to Hell-Jonathan's office (my Jonathan's counterpart).

When I first went to talk to the Hell-Jonathan, the man was like any of the other demons – rude at first, and then polite when he found out I was there on a pass.  But unlike the others, Hell-Jonathan was not open.  He was in a position of responsibility and tended to guard that responsibility with care. Hell-Jonathan didn't bother with small talk, and instead he went straight for a bottle of rotgut in his desk drawer.  I knew Hell-Jonathan's plan in an instant – cordial drinks at first, then the heavy stuff until I was blitzed and raggin' at the mouth.  But like any private dick worth her salt, I could booze it like a pro.

But I didn't have that much time – already two days had passed on the mortal realm.  I had to work quick and skip the hedging around with the Hell-bent bureaucrat and hope he had a polite streak. Besides, the best defense was when you controlled the offense.  

"Let's just skip the bullpucky and get down to brass tacks, Hell-Jonathan.  I'm here because I've caught one of your boys working the mortal plane."

"So?  Happens all the time," he replied politely, putting the rotgut away.  Shame.  I would've at least liked a sip.

"True.  But this one was killing people which is in direct violation of the Heaven-Hell Charter."  I noticed Hell-Jonathan get apprehensive.

He sat at his desk and pulled his computer over and typed away as if he'd been born with a keyboard in his hands instead of a pitchfork.  "I'm not showing any breech.  It's nothing," Hell-Jonathan said, trying to blow it off.  "Besides, did  you see him try to kill anyone?"

"He tried to kill me."

"Then, technically, he was only defending himself since you aren't really alive.  There you go, have a nice day.  Off you go."

"And he was directly responsible for killing my client," I said before he could push me out the door.

"It's permissible," he defended.

"This is true.  It is permissible.  I've even known someone to die from one of those cases.  However, I checked.  My client had no demon-contract against him.  This was an open hit.  Meaning a breech in the Charter.  As yet, the big boys upstairs are unaware of it, and judging by your expression, neither do the big boys downstairs.  So what's the scoop here?  You know something, I'm pretty sure of that."

"I'm really not at liberty to say who is working on what assignment," Hell-Jonathan began.

"Look, it's hot and I'm tired.  All I have to do now is say a certain name and suddenly some hellish big cheese would be there, a big cheese who I'm sure would be interested in the Heaven-Hell Charter.  Are we clear here?"

"Fine.  By the rules then.  I only have your word of what you say.  I have no proof.  No proof means no case.  Get lost, shamus."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the horn.  I showed it to Hell-Jonathan who went pink, as if sick to his stomach.  "Proof," I said, flipping it to him.

He caught it and turned it over.  Slowly, he pulled a hand-held scanner and scanned the bar code on the side of the horn.  It pinged on his monitor.  He nearly turned grey with the ping.  That was all I needed to know I was onto something.

With a sigh, Hell-Jonathan broke the news to me.  "Ten months ago real-time, mortal plane, an ad appeared in the Hell-Gazette.  Six demons answered the help wanted for a supposed move in Purgatory.  I processed their bus tickets myself.  I didn't think twice of the workers since Hell has cheaper worker rates and we're not talking soul points, chicky.  Cash on the barrelhead.  The six demons haven't been seen since.  I've hired my own investigator, but this horn is the first real clue to come up.  So I'd like to hire you, Morgendorffer."

Other than the color and the horns, Hell-Jonathan was a lot like my Jonathan.  Only a lot more polite.  I was starting to like him in a weird, no-fraternization kind of way.

"Why me?  Why not some of your own brood?"

"Are you kidding me?  Look what I have to work with."

"I know what you have to work with, Hell-Jonathan.  You've got some talent here.  Yet you're not working them.  Why?"

"Look, time's money, okay?  You want this job or not?"

"Time's wasting as well.  Put up or shut up.  Talk."

"Fine.  I need this solved fast.  And I don't need it whispered around here that I'm involved in a conspiracy to break the Heaven-Hell Charter.  I do that, and I'm fired.  Literally.  Got it?"

"Demons are bad business.  Bad mojo," I said, stuffing a hand in my pocket while looking him in the eye.  "It'll cost."

"It always does," Hell-Jonathan remarked.  "One catch, Morgendorffer.  You'll be working with a partner on this."

"No deal.  I work solo.  Have for years."

"Can't be helped.  Once you catch the demons, you don't have the power to return them – she will.  Besides, I'm sure you remember your old partner, Jane."

And there she was as Hell-Jonathan opened a door.  Just as I remembered her.  Only a little older.  Okay, a lot older.  But there she was.

She'd aged a little in the time we'd dissolved our partnership when I'd died.  Her hair was still raven-black, her lips ruby-red and her eyes cold-water blue.  Her angular face broke out into a grin when she saw me.

"Daria, how the Hell are you?"

"This is really going to cost you."

Grinning, Hell-Jonathan replied, "Oh, but it was worth it."

*************

So the next thing I knew I was sitting on the passenger side of a red, topless classic Thunderbird driving the Hell-Earth Freeway 666 at 120 mph.  It felt nice to know I was leaving Hell.  Not too many people could say that in their life.

Unfortunately, Jane was in the seat next to me driving us up and out.

I concentrated on the road.  It was a 7-lane freeway – six lanes clogged with bumper-to-bumper traffic full of road rage and honkers looking for an off-ramp to anywhere but Hell, and a single, smooth lane exiting out.  Not surprisingly, we were the only ones on this side of the road.

About four miles from this really huge black hole surrounded by a beating redness, Jane asked, "So how the hell have you been, Daria?  You know, you never write."

I didn't bother to reply.

"You know, you really ought to lighten up and relax.  Have some fun."

No reply.

"Hello?  Hell to Daria?  Come in, please."

No reply.

"You know, I always wondered something, Daria.  I always wondered how you and Brian hit it off after I introduced you two.  I thought of you the moment I saw him."

"You're kidding, right?"  Darn it!  I wasn't going to speak and now I'd gone and opened my big mouth.

"No idea at all.  I figured when you didn't show up for work the next day you were still with Brian in bed or something."

"Or something."

"But then you didn't show up for work ever again.  I figured you must've liked him and moved to your cabin in Montana.  C'mon, give!  Something what?  I bet you two were like bunnies, right?"

I looked at Jane who was smiling evilly, not bothering to watch the road.  "Fine," I said simply.  "He killed me, Jane."  I pulled off my hat to show her the hole in my cranium where an ice pick "picked" at it a few dozen times 40 years ago.

"Oooohhh, nasty.  I bet that had to hurt.  Why don't you do something to fix it?  Oh, that's right, you Purgatory people won't do anything to implicate vanity on your record and jeopardize your standing in any way.  Look at me – I was hit 22 years after you disappeared with 56 bullets ripping my body to pieces, and do I look like a mess?  Of course not – I look great, and so can you.  Just make a decision and you and me can be solving some hellacious cases – just like the good old days."

"What good old days?  We were always looking for work or simply working.  There wasn't anything good about it."

"Whatever.  So are you getting' any on the other side?  Oh, that's right, the Purgatory rules of abstinence.  You guys got it worse than in Heaven, I tell you.  You should go in for the Hell afterlife – the sex may stink some of the time, but at least there's no diseases that can be cured.  You've always got a chance of dying and does that ever add some zing into it!"

"Do you mind knocking off the bantering so we can concentrate on the case at hand or…"

"Or else what?" Jane asked.

Stupid mouth.  I'd been away from Jane too long and wasn't as sharp on holding my tongue as I once was.  I let it drop – no sense giving her any more info than she had – after all, I wasn't sure Jane hadn't deliberately set me up with Brian the Ice Pick. 

In silence, we drove through the beating heart.

*************

Jane stopped the red T-bird in front of the dock's local cop-shop.  I adjusted my hat to hide the pick holes and lit another cigarette as I got out of the car.  Jane and I walked up the steps to the establishment.

The desk sergeant recognized me immediately and began tapping his nightstick in the palm of his hand while glancing at the NO SMOKING sign.

I could take a hint.  I put the cigarette out in my hand and slipped it into my pocket for later smoking.

Jane put her cigarette out on the wall and then pulled another one out and lit it, all the while grinning in the sergeant's face.

"You two looking for a beating?  Then you came to the right place," the desk sergeant grinned back to Jane.

"Cut the crap, sergeant," I interjected before he could get up and try to make good on his threat.  "Get your superiors down here."

"Why whatever you say, lady.  It's not like they don't have anything else to do with all the available time on their hands," he sarcasmed.

Jane reached over his desk and pulled the nightstick out of his hands.  Startled, he watched on as she snapped it in half and tossed it back onto his desk.

"I'm not going to ask you again," I said.

A few minutes later Lt. DeMartino came downstairs, got an earful from the desk sergeant and motioned the two of us to his office.

"Any reason I shouldn't lock you up for destruction of private property?" he asked while closing the door.

I ignored the comment.  "We're looking for some information, not trouble."

"And that sweet comment is supposed to get me to roll over and tell you anything you want to know?  I ran a check on you when you were here last time, Morgendorffer, and you know what I found?  Nothing.  No PI license, no driver's license, no library card – nothing!  You're dressed for a 10's costume party and smell just as bad and I don't like unanswerable mysteries.  I don't care what kind of trick you pulled with the nightstick, and if you try it again, I'll shoot you.  Now cough up some correct ID or you two go in the clink!"

He must've been related to my old history teacher.  His eye bugged out of his skull when he started shouting at us.

Jane blew smoke in the Lt. DeMartino's face and whipped out another fake ID, saying "IAD, you piece of $#%$.  This entire department is under investigation.  Upstairs wants to know who's been tipping you people off to look the other way and falsify reports on the murders at the marina."

"What murders?" Lt. DeMartino coughed.

"George Silvers for one," I replied.  "His agent, Charles Ruttheimer for another."

"The coroner ruled them accidental deaths," he replied warily, apparently not liking where this conversation was going.  He wouldn't since it contradicted his neat little theory of accidental deaths and meant forthcoming work on his department's part.

"Strange how air injected into the bloodstream can be accidental," I returned, holding his gaze.

"And were the deaths of Jane Smith, Paul Rubins, Roger Smythe, Juan Valdez, Courtney Love also accidental deaths?" Jane asked, whipping out her pocket notebook and flipping through it with an air of authority.  "I also have the names of 65 more people in here who are dead following a visit to Chez Surf, a local marina restaurant in your area.  All listed as drownings, drug overdoses, cardiac arrests – but none investigated for a possible lead.  All dead within the last six months!  Now it's your turn to put up or get locked up, $%^&* for brains!"

Jane was on her feet, leaning over Lt. DeMartino's desk showing her own demonic character.  Her face was turning red and I doubted the Lt. was able to see the smoke simmering out of her ears since that would have required him to look beyond her face which he didn't seem capable of doing.

I put a hand on Jane's shoulder to pull her back.  Jane had had a mean temper in the old days.  These days, there was no telling what she'd do now that he was a demon.  And I didn't want this guy to end up like George Silvers – dead before his time.

Jane's temper worked its magic and Lt. DeMartino was more than happy to give us whatever help he could.  It wasn't very much since he really didn't know anything.  I suggested he put the coroner under investigation along with the rest of the marina and he said he'd get right on it.  I didn't think he was lying since that would mean another visit from Jane.

But knowing police work like I do meant it would be of no help to my client since it would take over 3 years of undercover effort to nab some two-bit pot smoker that fit the profile they'll get around to creating one day.  Meanwhile Jane and I needed to find the real bad apples.

As we drove to our next destination, I said to Jane, "You haven't lost your knack for spinning a yarn."

"What do you mean?"

"Those names.  You had him going thinking there was a serial killer lose."

She flipped me her small notepad.  "I didn't make those names up, Daria.  Jonny-baby gave me a rundown on the locals here who've been sent to Hell in the past six months when the Fate line indicated they were headed the other way."

"And he found 70 names?" I asked incredulously.

"No.  Closer to 550."

"Jes… er…"

"C'mon, say it.  I know you want to."

"Hush, you.  We've got a big problem on our hands."

"No #$%$#.  So you missed the way I could spin a story, eh?"

"I liked them in the old days.  You managed to get me to laugh."

"Hey, remember when we bamboozled that street beat rookie into thinking we were undercover cops from another precinct?"

"Yeah," I grinned in spite of myself.  "That was the best three months of free coffee and donuts we ever had."

Jane grinned, then laughed.  "That rookie was so steamed when he found out we were a couple of private dicks.  You'd have thought he'd have shot our heads off the way he was waving that gun.  Heh heh – I wonder whatever happened to that poor mug."

I sobered.  "He died from a hit and run and took the road upward."

Jane sobered as well.  "It's going to take some time to track them down," she said.  

"It's time we don't have to spare if we're to meet Hell-Jonathan's deadline."

"That's true – if the returning saints catch wind of the charter-breech, they'll fink to the angels and heads will roll, quite possibly yours and mine since we'll be in the middle of it."

We were quiet for a few minutes while we thought about it.

I broke the silence with, "We have to get them to come to us."

"Agreed.  How about the bad cop, good cop routine?  

"That'll work, but who plays which part?" I asked.

"Are you @#$%!%#$ kidding, or what?"

*************

Chez Surf's kitchen was as I remembered it.  Loud and not the cleanest place you would ever want to go to.  All signs of the fight I'd had with the demon cook had been cleaned up.  The demon itself was nowhere in sight and I didn't smell him so I knew he wasn't nearby.  That didn't sit well with Jane who always had her own way of getting information when a job called for more work than she wanted to give it.  That, or when she was just really having a bad day.

SMACK.

"What the #$%@$ do you mean you don't know where Johnson is?" Jane bellowed into the head cook's ear.

"Who?" prompted the maitre d' helpfully.  He shouldn't have bothered.

SMACK.  Jane cuffed him on the back of his head.  "Whatdaya mean, 'who'?  Melvin Johnson, a cook.  My partner saw him here the last time she was in.  You should remember it since he got into a fight with her."

"Urrk… urrk…" gasped the head cook still in a headlock.

"Speak up!" Jane said, releasing him and smacking him again for good measure.

"Urrk… don't know where he is," he gasped in reply.

"God$#%$$!  I want Johnson and I want him now!" Jane screamed, and then pulled out her .45 so the two humans could see it.

They were scared spitless.  We used to do this same kind of number back when we ran the business together.  Back when we were alive.  Now it was time for good cop to come in.

"You better listen to her, fellas.  She means business.  She's had this temper as long as I remember…" I said just before Jane shot me in the leg.

BLAMMM!

It was a good thing the bullet didn't hurt or otherwise there would have been a good chance I wouldn't be returning to Purgatory anytime soon.  But being dead and all, I was beyond mortal pain.  As for the gushing blood, well, what with Jane sticking a still smoking gun barrel up the cook's nostril and grabbing the maitre d' by the lapel and pulling him close so he could see the blister forming on the cook's nose, they weren't paying too much attention to me.

"Oh.   Um… ouch.  The pain.  The agony.  I must go sit down," I said with as much gusto as I could in order to maintain the illusion that Jane was psychotic.  Not that there was ever a need to maintain an illusion.

"Who wants the next one?" Jane seethed to both faces.

Their eyes went wide and white.  "We'd like to help you, lady, really we would.  But Melvin quit.  No forwarding address, no phone number, nothing."

"When did he quit?" she asked.

"Two days ago.  Please don't kill me," supplied the cook, moving his tenderized nose off the end of Jane's gun.

"He get paid for his time?"

"Checks are cut only once every two weeks, no exceptions," said the maitre d'.

Jane thought for a moment and asked, "So when's payday around here?"

Eyes still wide, the maitre d' stammered, "Uh… uh… today at 5 p.m."

Jane went mean again.  "Today's your lucky day, jagoff.  When Melvin comes in for his paycheck, stall him and give me a call.  This is where I'm staying,"  Jane shoved a freshly printed card with our hotel suite on it into his mouth.  

"You got it, lady," he mumbled.

"You'd better," Jane menaced, using her fingers to imitate a gun and suggesting she'd shoot each person in the head if they didn't.

She then dropped both of them onto the floor and walked towards me.

I was on the other side of the kitchen, putting ketchup on rags and using them as bandages so the "event" would look real.  "I heard," I said before Jane opened her mouth.  "Let's go."

We were quiet until in the car and out of the parking lot.

"What's the big idea of putting a hole in my leg?" I asked as we drove down the road.

"It got them to talk, so what's the big deal?  Another hole more or less isn't going to hurt you.  After all, you're already dead," Jane smiled.

"You shot me.  You used to never shoot me."

"You used to not be dead."

"Point.  Still, I didn't even get to use my good cop routine on those stooges."

"Hey, what can I say, I saw a better opportunity to make my... _our_ point and I took it."

I resigned myself to what was done was done.  The shooting was really no big deal since I was dead, but I was going to tack on the cost of repairing the body to Hell-Jonathan's tab.  But I still didn't like it.  Nobody shot me and got away with it clean.

"Do you think this plan will work?" I asked, removing the fake bandage and tossing it in the backseat.

"Hell yes – all demons are greedy.  We've got enough damn taxes to pay.  It's worse than England.  The way I see it is that those two goofs'll either stall Melvin and call us, or they'll give him one of our cards and Melvin will come to us.  Either way, we win."

"I can't believe you Heck-people have to pay taxes like we do in Purgatory."

"You pay damnation taxation too?" she asked.

"Okay, we don't pay the same kinds of taxes."

"And I bet you don't pay as much as we do either.  Those government office buildings don't come cheap, what with the fire codes and everything.  I tell you, asbestos is everywhere."

"So what now?" I asked.

Jane drove into a parking lot.  "We wait - wanna take in a movie?  I hear there's a new Van Damme flick opening."

I thought about it.  "It's been a long time since I've seen an action flick, so what the heck."

"Action movie?  Morgendorffer, you got a lot to learn about the 50's.  It's a foreign film.  Action.  Sheesh."

*************

Jane and I rode the elevator up to our office in a cheap hotel.  It seemed that no matter what the era, you could always find an office in a cheap hotel.  It was one of the cornerstones of the universe.

As we walked down the hall, we were chattering like old friends.  More like Jane was chattering.  She always did that – moreso when we were alive.  I walked behind Jane and nudged her arm when I saw our office door was slightly ajar.  We stopped in the hallway.  I sniffed the air.  It smelled of evil.  Contrary to popular belief, evil did smell pretty damn bad, but it took a special honker to sniff it out.  I hadn't really smelled any evil for nearly four decades until this case, so my sniffer was primed.  What it smelled like was an absence of air.  Figure that out.  It took me a long time to get it.

Jane looked at me for a moment.  She then pointed to herself and then the door, and then at me and the hallway.  I nodded and she went to the door.

She opened it and walked into the dark room.  She flipped on a light and saw four demons waiting for her – one of which was my missing perp with the missing horn.

"Hello, Melvin.  Nice horn job you got going there," Jane said.

One of the demons, his arms crossed and looking taller than the others said, "You must be Jane.  I hear you're looking for my boy Melvin here."

"You heard right.  You losers are in a heap of trouble back home."

"That right?" asked another demon.  "What in Hell for?"

"Pre-killing," Jane said flatly.

"Hah!  Good one!" laughed Melvin.

"Do I have it wrong?  You're not pre-killing mortals?  Why don't you tell me what I'm missing."

"Oh, you've got it right, Jane.  We're pre-killing mortals but we're working someone else's job so technically we're in the clear.  This job's all on the up and up."

"Really?" Jane replied skeptically.  "So why didn't you renew your visa a couple months ago with Hell-Hall?"

Melvin shrugged.  "We were busy."

Jane laughed in a non-believing way.  "You losers always have an answer,  you know that.  I must say, you're all fairly calm in discussing your plans.  I'm surprised.  This has been the downfall of too many villains in times past."

The larger demon smiled and said, "Jane, Jane, Jane.  You haven't been in Hell very long – you're still thinking like a mortal.  What the Hell is going to happen to us?  Heh, heh."

Jane smirked and snapped her fingers for me to come in.  "What's going to happen is that you boys are going back to Hell.  My partner and I've been authorized to return you dumb-@#$@ and that's what we're going to do."

"Whose your partner, hmm?  Is it the Purgatory-woman being held by my demon chums?" he motioned behind Jane.

Jane looks behind her and saw me being restrained by a demon on each arm.  I was smoking a cheroot and my hat was parked crookedly across his brow.  I didn't bother to struggle; my hands were in my coat pockets.  

Once inside the room, the two demons released me.  That was a mistake since it gave me room to move.  With my right hand, I pulled the stogie out of my mouth and began a question and answer period.  Maybe I could get these saps to answer before I had to send them back.

"Since you demons seem to have the upper hand, you don't mind answering some questions do you?" I asked, knowing full well that megalomania was a normal parameter of each demon's psyche.

"Go ahead and ask, #$#%-for-brains.  For all the good it'll do since you'll be pulped by day's end and used as building material in the next bypass on the Hell-highway."

"Hey, good one, Jimmy-John Joey-Jay-Bob," one of the other demons said.

"Shut the #$%^% up, Carter!  You $##$!" he replied.

"Gentlemen, please.  My ears can't take much more of this," I said.  I slouched, took a puff on the stogie and asked Hell-JJJJ-Bob, "Who paid your contract?"

"Nixon," he laughed in my face.

"Try again," I said.  "His whereabouts are public record and he was nowhere seen near you pugs."

"He was wearing a mask when we met.  It was Nixon.  Chew on that, gumshoe."

"Good one, Donny," Hell-Carter said.

"Shut the #$%^% up, Carter!  You $##$!" Hell-Donny replied.

"Give me a description of him."

"Why should I, you $#@#?" Hell-Bob asked, flexing his claws.

"You mean that a demon skilled in working with mortals and Purgatory personnel can't remember a simple appearance?  What would the big S say to that?"

Hell-JJJJ-Bob looked at me critically and said, "He looked like Nixon.  Dark hair, large nose, polite, punctual, and had a sauerkraut scent."

"Who was your contact here?"

"Nixon, you stinky piece of #$%," put in another demon.

"Good one, Andy," Hell-Carter said.

"Shut the #$%^% up, Carter!  You $##$!" Hell-Andy replied.

"And did this Nixon have a name?"

"Tom.  Hey, Jimmy-John Joey-Jay-Bob, are we going to answer questions all day or can we start killing them?" asked the last, nameless demon.

"Tom what?"

"Just Tom, so $#$%-you where the sun don't shine!  Haw, haw!"

"Good one, Billy," Hell-Carter said.

"Shut the #$%^% up, Carter!  You $##$!" Hell-Billy replied.

"Okay, since I seem to be taxing your limits, why don't you tell me how long you were at this game of killing mortals?"

"Ever since we showed up," one of the other demons answered with a confused look on his face as if I were the stupid one.

"How were you paid?"

"In cash.  Dibs on the talkative one.  I get to crush her head first."

"No, she's mine," snarled Hell-Melvin, rubbing the sore area on his forehead where his horn should have been.

"What kind of cash?" I asked.

"Quarters.  Besides, who cares?!  It's killing time," Hell-Melvin said, advancing on me.  "I want my horn back."

I blew smoke in his face, but unlike others, he'd been accustomed to that trick and it didn't faze him at all.  I pulled a wadded up hankie out of my pocket.  "This it?" I asked, revealing the horn.

"It is and you know it, you $##$%^ #$%#$  #$%#$%#  #@$%#$er!"

Got him.  "By acknowledging ownership of the horn you are indeed Melvin Johnson 5434536, demon subclass 82, formerly dead 115 years ago.  You and your five companions are ordered back to Hell under possible violation of the Heaven-Hell charter.  Failure to do so will result in harsh consequences."

Hell-Melvin laughed along with the other demons and then shape-changed into a 10-foot tall, deep-red skinned, curved horn wearing, hoofed demon and asked, "How the Hell are you going to send me back to Hell?  You are so dead!"

I pulled out a little surprise in the form of a snub-nosed .38 special.

He stopped at the sight of it.  He then doubled over in laughter.  So did the other demons.  I mean, knee-jerk, falling down bellows of laughter.

Jane looked at the gun and with an astonished or bewildered look (I always got those two mixed up) said, "Daria, any demon can avoid bullets by shape changing, turning to mist, whatever.  You won't get them with a gun."

"A bullet doesn't affect us, gumshoe," said another demon.  "Didn't you learn anything in Purgatory?"

"Thanks, shamus.  I needed that laugh.  Let the killing time resume."  Hell-Melvin advanced on me.

"I thought  you knew the intricacies of demon hunting," Jane lamented.

"I do," I replied, firing a shot into Hell-Melvin since he was chambered first..

Hell-Melvin began to turn into mist in order to allow the bullet to pass through him.  He was mist when the bullet got there but instead of continuing its mindless way to the wall, the bullet stopped midway through the mist.

Hell-Melvin then screamed in pain.  It turned into a howl of agony while he continued to shape change at a faster rate, morphing into one seamless wad of muscle after another.  Finally, he stopped making noise when a white light enveloped him and he was gone from the mortal plane, dragging him downwards.

The interesting thing about firing blessed bullets into demons was the way they couldn't escape it by changing their shape like they could with mortal artillery.  All you needed to do was make sure a bullet with their name got to them before they phased from this plane.  And since Hell-Carter was nice enough to name out everyone, I had a better chance at getting them first time.

"Get her!" bellowed Hell-JJJJ-Bob.

BLAM!

"You get her!" replied Hell-Donny.

BLAM!

"I'm out of here!" Hell-Andy began to phase.

BLAM!

"Aw crap!" intoned Hell-Billy.

BLAM!

"Eeep!" went Hell-Carter

BLAM!

There was some screaming and so forth, but I put it out of my mind as I shielded my eyes from the white glare of the departing demons.

The office was empty save for me and Jane.  She took a load off her feet by plopping down into an easy chair.  I walked around so I could see her face.  She then noticed me putting more bullets back in my pistol.  "Who're you reloading for, Daria?  We've completed our… oh."

I snapped the chamber back in place.  "You're right.  Our mission is over.  It's time for you to go back home."

"Awww, you don't mean it, do you?  We were having such a fun time and all."

"Jane," I started.

"C'mon, you haven't even solved the case yet. You didn't get a name from any of the demons you shot."

I cocked the hammer.

"You don't have a bullet with my name on it, do you?"

I smiled.  Then I picked up my fallen cheroot and stood in front of Jane, the gun dangling in my left hand while looking at her straight on.

Jane got up and began pacing.  "Think about it.  You still need my help.  The demons only received an upfront amount from the person who hired them.  Knowing Hell like I do, they probably set up a contract so they'd receive a percentage of the souls once Heaven had been stormed."

"Jane…"

"I'm thinkin' here, Daria!  These jerks managed to demonize people who should return to a mostly normal state now that they're gone but in the six months they'd been on Earth they'd pre-killed over 550 souls that we know about.  Think about it.  Why didn't anyone notice?"

"Jane…"

"Their contact wore a Nixon mask, reeked of sauerkraut and went by the name of Tom.  The money was paid in Purgatory quarters.  Sounds like you'll need help to solve this one, old friend.  You need me."

I could hear sirens outside and feet rushing up the steps.

"I'd hate to have to shoot you, Jane, but I have my duty to perform and your services are no longer required."

Jane stopped pacing, sweated a little while looking at me raise the gun and finally said, "Catch you next time, Morgendorffer.  Don't curse when you get back – who knows where you'll end up."  She stood in the middle of the room and then said, "#$%@#@$%^&*&*."  She disappeared.

"I'll keep that in mind."

*************

I showed back up in PTO, waiting for Jonathan to return from his break and reclaim my body.  I was sucking down more smoke when he came in, coughed and said, "Morgendorffer, put it out.  After all, smoking'll stunt your growth."

I put it out on his desk – and not in the ashtray.  That got his attention.

"Morgendorffer," he seethed.  "Tell me why I shouldn't have you thrown down a sliding tube to you-know-where?"

"The fact that you don't have the clout to make that kind of judgment against my soul would lead me to believe that's an empty threat.  Plus, before you pop another aneurysm that got you here to begin with, I've managed to solve my case.  And, Jonathan-old-buddy, you are in deep ca-ca."

Jonathan honestly didn't know what I was talking about, so I briefed him on what had happened since leaving Hell and going back to Earth.  

"So what's the big deal?  The demons are back where they belong…" He started to think it through.  Jonathan and I may not have seen eye to eye on a lot of things, but that didn't mean he was stupid.  "…or are they?  Somebody paid them with Purgatory money and we don't know who."

"Wrong," I replied.  "You don't know who, but I do, and that's where this office is in trouble."

"Explain."

"Upon returning I went back to the library and accessed FATE.GOV.  The demons had given me all the clues I needed.  First, the ringleader was a male – therefore scratch 257,621,315 females off the list.  Next, the demon said the perp smelled sauerkraut.  Going out on a limb and suspecting our boy wasn't an Axis member, I concluded that food was implied.  Foodhandlers dropped the number to 37,829,445.  That number was still a little high.

"I narrowed the specifics by eliminating all persons who didn't traffic in sauerkraut which got rid of 37,815,332 – leaving 14,113.  Further defining the parameters to those who had been in Purgatory for less then 5 years narrowed it down to 836.  Figuring that the reason this person paid the demons in change meant that he or she was possibly a hot dog cart vendor further narrowed the list to 88 possibilities.  I've spent the last three days checking their alibis.  They all had one."

"So what are you trying to say?  Did you find him or not?"

"Keep your pants on, Jonathan.  I redid the computer search, this time including Tom or Tommy as a nickname or middle name and selected it down as before.  This time one name came up – Jon-Tom, a local hot dog vendor.  I met with him again and if what I suspect is true, I think we both need to get his story.  He's waiting for us outside."

Jon, my favorite hotdog vendor came in, his hat crunched between his hands.

In as friendly a voice as I could muster, I said, "Hi, Jon.  Do you know why you're hear?"

"Um.." he started.  "Well, I was minding my own bizness at my hot dog cart in the Bronx in 2047 when I got caught in some crossfire.  I didn't do anything wrong, did I?  I don't want to... gulp... go down."

"It's okay, Jon," Jonathan said, trying to calm him down.  "You can calm down.  We just want to know if you know why you're with us today."

"I thought it was because you said you'd want some coffee and a dog, Daria.  I've got my cart outside – I can go get it right now if you want.  Your credit's still okay with me."

"No, no, that's okay, Jon.  Now, why do you think you're in Purgatory and not Heaven?"

"Um… well," Jon fidgeted.  "I guess it's cause I once caught my ma rushing from her bathroom to her bedroom without any clothes on.  She got awful upset."

"Now, Jon, that's not the only thing, is it?" I prompted.

"Well, no, ma'am.  I once took a pack of gum from a store without paying for it.  But that's it, ma'am, I swear!"

Well, so much for the easy way.  "I believe you, Jon.  But how about Tom?  Does he know why he's here?"

Jon grew increasingly uncomfortable.  "Tom's a bad man, Daria.  Please don't make him come here."

"I know he's not nice, but I have to speak with him."

Jon started crying.  "Please don't make him come here, Daria, _please."_

"Tom, stop that crying right now," I ordered.

Almost instantly the tears stopped.

"What the hell do you want, gumshoe?" Jon/Tom asked, a sneer on his face.

"Tom, do you know why you're in Purgatory and not Heaven?"

"'Cuz the @#$%heads at the Pearly Gates wouldn't let me in, that's why.  Something about multiple murders."

I drew Jonathan aside.  "Jon/Tom's obviously a multiple-personality – one good, the other evil.  Each balances the other.  That's why Jon could never get to Heaven despite the number the good deeds he did.  But he shouldn't be here – not in Purgatory, or at least not in this area.  Not with open access to other planes of existence.  Your department misclassified him and left him free to wander."

Jonathan sighed.  "You're right, Morgendorffer.  We screwed up – I'll take care of it."

"I'm sure your heartfelt condolences will do wonders for my client."

*************

BEGIN VIDEO NOVEMBER 2001 

Location: Lawndale High, hallway

Time: Afternoon

Daria and Jane are at lockers and Jane has just finished reading the story.  

Jane:                                       That's it?  Where's the rest of it?  What happens now that Jon or Tom or whatever his name is has been identified as misclassified?  It was just getting good.

Daria:                                      The last section is being written as we speak.

Jane:                                       I can't believe I get to go to hell.  I didn't think Sandi knew me that well.  I'm touched.

Daria:                                      Don't be.  Ted wrote it.

Jane:                                       Ted?

Daria:                                      Ted.

Jane:                                       Ted?

Daria punches Jane in the arm.

Jane:                                       Ow!  What was that for?

Daria:                                      I thought you were caught in a loop so I was jarring it loose.

Jane:                                       Do you have anything I can jar loose?

Daria:                                      Why are we friends again?

Jane:                                       So, really, it was Ted that wrote this?

Daria:                                      Yep.

Jane:                                       How'd you find out?

Daria:                                      It was easy.  Here's the ending that was handed in on the assignment.

Daria gives Jane a piece of paper who begins to read it.

END VIDEO RESTART STORY 

*************

So then Quinn's cousin or sister or whatever couldn't think of anything else to say and left the building.  She walked past the other losers in Purgatory and promptly went to their version of Cashman's where she got a matching outfit that would match the mop she called hair – as if it would make her a better person.  But that's what happened because once she walked out looking like a million bucks, she was surrounded by angels who asked her what her name was.  She told them and was instantly taken to the Pearly Gates where she told the Saint on duty what her name was and they whisked her inside, straight to the Angel Hall where she met its director, the lovely Angel, Sandi.  Now, Angel Sandi was lovely to look upon and when she saw Daria she smiled which meant a whole lot to Daria who smiled and fell to her knees, asking if there was anything she could ever do for her.

Angel Sandi said, "Sure.  You remember the time when you got me stuck writing some loser assignment when I could have gone shopping instead with my friends, well, I'm sure you don't.  Never mind.  Anyway, what I want you to do is head up a new division I've created just for you."

"Oh, Angel Sandi, anything for you!" Quinn's sister said.

"Okay.  Here's the deal.  I want you to head up the Hell-division where you have to constantly check up on the souls of those unfortunate enough to be losers and sent to Hell.  It's a field office job but when I saw your name I just thought of you."

"Oh, Angel Sandi, I'll do it!" Quinn's sister cried in relief after having spent quality time with an Angel.  And a pretty Angel at that.

A hole opened up under her and she promptly fell down into her office which was another shack near the gates of Hell.

She didn't last long before her old partner came along and shot her.  But since she was already dead she simply stayed put.  Her partner got a promotion.

The Jon/Tom stupid thing was resolved and everyone was happy.

Pretty soon the poor souls of puppy dogs and cats, including Fluffy, came to Angel Sandi's attention and she created a special place in Heaven for them.  Including Fluffy.

Quinn never did make it to Heaven but that's because she was the sister of a loser.  And a brain.

END STORY RESTART VIDEO NOVEMBER 2001 

Location: Lawndale High, hallway

Time: Afternoon - continuation

Jane hands the page back to Daria. 

Jane:                                       I think I'm going to be sick.

Daria:                                      Quinn and I had the same reaction.  

Jane:                                       You… _and Quinn?_

Daria:                                      As strange as it seems, we have gotten on better speaking terms lately.  Anyway, after reading the ending that's why I knew Sandi couldn't have written the rest of it.

Jane:                                       So how did you find out it was Ted?  Was it the Dante references?  

Daria:                                      …um, no, I…

Jane:                                       You probably ran through a list of all students at school with enough IQ to even think of a Dante reference and came up with Ted as your number one target, eh?

Daria:                                      …um, no, I…

Jane:                                       Then you probably went over to his house and squeezed the truth out of him, right?  And you didn't call me to watch the fun?  What kind of friend are you?

Daria:                                      The not-killing-your-best-friend kind of friend apparently.  Much to my chagrin.

Jane:                                       So how did you find out it was Ted who wrote it?

Daria:                                      He had an attack of conscience.  He came over last night, blubbering on and on about how he sold his soul to the devil for a pack of gum.

Jane:                                       I'm going to stock up in some gum.

Daria:                                      I finally got him calmed down…

Jane:                                       I bet you used some gum.

Daria:                                      I'm not telling.  Anyway, he told me the story of how he was roped into writing Sandi's assignment.

Jane:                                       Rope, eh?  Now we're talking.  So what are you going to do?  You're not having him finish it, are you?

Daria:                                      Actually, I am.  I even upped the ante and gave him another pack of gum.  All he needs to do is give me an ending.

Jane:                                       That's not the Daria I know.

Daria:                                      I just want the original writer to have his say and not this hack work just be accepted by Mr. O'Neill.

Jane:                                       So you're going to let Sandi slide on her story?

Daria:                                      Who said anything about letting Sandi slide?  …and speaking of the gum dispenser…

Sandi, Tiffany, Stacy and Quinn walk down the hall and are obviously talking about something.

Quinn:                                    All I'm saying, Sandi, is that white is still a good color for a prom dress.

Sandi:                                     Not according to Waif magazine it isn't.

Quinn:                                    And God forbid we ever deviated from the dictates of a magazine.

Sandi:                                     What was that, _vice president?_

Quinn:                                    Nothing, nothing.

Daria slides a finger alongside her nose.  Quinn, noticing this, also slides her finger alongside her nose.  Daria walks up to the group.

Daria:                                      Sandi?

Sandi:                                     Um… yes, Quinn's cousin or whatever?

Tiffany:                                  It's her sister, actually.

Stacy:                                     Yeah, Quinn said so last…

Sandi:                                     I _don't recall asking for input on this._

Stacy:                                     Eeep!

Daria:                                      I just read your story, Sandi.

Sandi:                                     Um… yeah?

Daria:                                      It showed a wonderful depth of imagery.

Sandi:                                     Um… it's a gift.

Daria:                                      The way you portrayed your friends as homeless bag-ladies wearing paper dresses…

Tiffany:                                  Paper?!  Eeewwwwww.  It makes me look fat.

Quinn:                                    Paper?!  That's so 70's.

Stacy:                                     Paper?!  When did styles change?  Was I at that meeting?  Oh, God – I missed out!

Sandi:                                     Paper?!  What did Ted… um… I don't know what you're talking about.  My story was about puppy dogs and other cute things in the future.

Daria:                                      Oh, right.  Wink-wink.  I get it.  Your secret is safe with me.  Wink-wink.  Only, I wanted to say that your story conveyed such power… such passion… you have a gift.  It must have taken you a _very long time to write it all out.  I couldn't help but wonder if you had to __skip dates or __fashion meetings to write this out.  It showed a lot of thought._

Tiffany:                                  Wait a minute.  You said you were home sick last week which was why you couldn't go to the mall with us.

Quinn:                                    And didn't Skyler say you blew him off last Friday?  Stacy, what are the bylaws regarding such unbecoming behavior in the Fashion Club as showing brainiac tendencies?

Stacy:                                     Um… I'm not sure I rem…

Quinn:                                    Check paragraph 8, subsection 3.

Stacy:                                     Paragraph 8, subsection 3 clearly states a mandatory review of all activities for a three-month period is, um, well… mandatory.

Sandi:                                     Um, guys?  I didn't write this story Quinn's sister is talking about.  Tell them!

Daria:                                      That's right.  She _didn't write the story.  Wink-wink, right, Sandi?  Gotta go.  Later._

Quinn:                                    Tiffany, Stacy – it's obvious that Sandi's in denial about this supposed writing ability of hers.  We need to counsel her in this time of need.  Stacy, what's on her agenda?

Stacy:                                     She has dates lined up through the rest of this week and into next week.

Quinn:                                    Cancel them all.  Plus all future dates for the next three months out are to be cancelled.  She needs therapy.  

Sandi:                                     You mean you're going to cancel all your dates as well and we're going to spend time shopping?

Quinn:                                    Certainly not.  We're still popular and in no way associated with being a brain.  Stacy, see if you can line up Brooke and someone else, say… Andrea, to stay with Sandi in her time of need.  They'll help you, Sandi, for as long as you need.

Sandi:                                     Why me?

Tiffany:                                  Have you thought about taking the self-esteem class?

Sandi:                                     Eeep!

Behind the Fashion Club Jane and Daria have finished watching the action unfold.

Jane:                                       You have a real mean streak, you know?

Daria:                                      Thanks.  It's a gift.

Jane:                                       Here comes trouble.

Daria:                                      Good thing I thought to bring more gum to school with me today.

Ted:                                        Here's the rest of the story, Daria.

Daria:                                      Thanks, Ted.  Any problem writing it?

Ted:                                        No.  You might say I was …inspired.

Jane:                                       I think you've earned a stick of Juicy Fruit, my boy.

Jane hands Ted a stick of gum.  Sandi glares at the three of them.

Ted:                                        Thanks.  Oh, boy.  Gummmmmm.

Jane:                                       I feel like I'm contributing to the delinquency of a minor.  And not in a good way.  Y'know, I don't think Sandi likes you.

Daria:                                      What was your first clue?

Ted:                                        It's probably because she doesn't like gum.

Jane:                                       Are you related to Kevin or something?

Ted:                                        No, really.  I like gum.  Everyone I like likes gum.  Sandi doesn't like gum.  I don't like Sandi.  Ergo, won't like you if you in turn like gum.

Daria:                                      I think you've taken in too much Wintergreen on the brain, Ted.

Ted:                                        Mmmmm.  Wintergreen.  Gummmmm.

Daria:                                      Maybe I should've just gotten Sandi to take Ted out on a date instead of placating him with a pack of gum.

Ted:                                        Gummmmm.

Jane:                                       Maybe that's what she offered him first time around…

Ted:                                        Gummmmm.

Jane:                                       And then again, maybe not.

Ted:                                        Gummmmm.

Daria:                                      That's it.  I'm outta here.  Ted, this ending better be worth it.

Ted:                                        Rewrites will cost you an extra pack.

**END VIDEO**

**RESTART STORY**

*************

"All right, that's enough, Ted!!" Sandi bellowed in my ear.  The pen flew out of my hand as I rushed to soothe the aching audio chamber.

"Uh...something wrong?" I managed to stammer out between the excessive ringing in my head.

"Wrong?!  Wrong?!!  You lousy dunderhead!  I paid you a pack of gum _in advance to write a detective story where Quinn's cousin or sister or whatever gets hers in the end …not this stinkin' piece of trash!  I wanted a modern-day Chandler, not Sam Spade meeting Casper the Friendly Ghost!"_

"Um, I…" I started.

Sandi didn't notice and overrode my voice with hers.  "I wanted a story involving anti-social types, bullets, bombs, cars, defective credit cards, dives, excitement, fashion disasters, fire escapes, garish coordinating, garrotes, and hellish behavior.  I wanted some icky people, jerks, klutzes, lush-faced losers, mooks, narcotics, obtuse crimelords, polka-dot wearing pugs, quest-less bums, rods, saps, some screaming, and tramps!  I wanted undesirables such as Quinn which I will admit you did get right in the story by putting her in Hell, voluptuous blondes, weird thingies, xerox killers, yammering bubblebrains, and a zenith reaching climax!  Is this what I got from you?!  I don't think so!!"

"Well, you know, I was getting around to that.  You see, in the next chapter I was going to involve a demon influencing Jon/Tom as the killer and work it so that Daria has to leave Purgatory again to team up with her old PI partner, Jane, who's seriously mad at her, so she can bring that demon to justice."

"What the hell are you babbling about, you _geek?!"_

"Well, I had to take a lot of liberties with the afterlife and all but the way I saw it, there's this plot by a bunch of senior demons to cross over to the living domain and start snuffing people left and right so the ranks of Hell will swell with unrepentant deadheads.  Then they'll try to storm the Pearly Gates.  Now, Lucifer has heard rumors of this plot and he isn't pleased since it would shift him out of power.  So he gives Daria a couple more hellish-type PI's, one still being Jane, which is where the private dicks you want to read about come from, and together they search for the hidden demons.  That way I can have her going through the nine circles of Hell like in Dante's work.  Pretty snazzy, huh?"

 "I don't know what a _pizza place has to do with anything, you loser.  The only good thing about it is that Morgendorffer likes to beat other people that remind her of Quinn!"  _

"Um, so you don't like it?"  I may not have been the brightest boy in school when I accepted the offer to do some writing collaboration with Sandi, but she had offered me something that I just couldn't pass up.  _Three packs of gum to work on her story.  She had come up to me the other day in the halls at school and knew how to pump my ego.  I was a great writer, she said.  I like your style and so on.  I should have known better._

Still, I wasn't entirely stupid.  So when Sandi started ranting and raving, kicking the furniture and her little brother, I knew it was high time to vacate the scene.  I quietly tiptoed to the door, opened it and said, "Um, Sandi, about the rest of the gum we talked about in our contract..."

She stopped punching her other brother and looked at me.  "Contract?"  The word oozed out from between clenched teeth.  Good God, I didn't know she was such a detective fiction fan.  "Don't worry about the contract.  You'll be paid.  Now get out!"

I left at a dead run.

*************

The day started on a sour note, so I slammed down a shot of sour whiskey and waited for my landlord to quit spitting in my face.  As usual, she was wanting her rent.  I was about to shoot her in the spinal column when this guy walked in.  He was wearing an eyepatch over his left eye, but there was no mistaking the powder burns on his face.  His left eye had the look of an area destroyed by a bullet searching for a convenient brain.

"Are you Morgendorffer?" he asked.

"Yeah.  You?"

"My name's Ted, and I'd like for you to find who iced me and why..."

THE END 

**The 7th Circle of Hell:  Vanity – need a bulldozer to clean your room?**

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                                       Well, that was certainly strange.  Discussion.  What conclusions can you draw from this story?  Who is Sandi Griffin?  Anyone?

Naomi:                                    That Sandi sure was a bitch.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Hey, hey, language, young lady.

Naomi:                                    Sorry.  But she was.

Nick:                                       Why?  What brought that up?

Naomi:                                    The other authors, while a couple of them weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer…

Bob:                                        What do you mean?

Naomi:                                    Their elevator didn't make it all the way to the top floor…

Bob:                                        Drawing a blank.

Nick:                                       Knock it off, Bob.  Naomi, go on.

Naomi:                                    My point is that the other authors, whatever their handicaps, at least did the work themselves.  This Sandi coerced someone else into doing it for her and even then, she wasn't happy with the results.  To me that's kind of, well… bitchy.

Elizabeth:                               I have to agree.  I mean, when we saw how their project was conceived, that Sandi just about made it a done deal that she was going to write something nasty about Daria since it was apparently Daria's fault that she had to do this project.

Jon:                                         I'm not so sure I agree.  Sure, Daria was the protagonist of the story but it was Sandi's colleagues who ended up in Hell.

Rich:                                       No, that was written in by Ted.  Daria ended up in Hell when you read Sandi's original ending.

Jon:                                         I know, but I think Sandi actually wanted a different story than what was written for her and when she canned Ted, I think she just wanted to get it done and so ended the story as fast as she could.  I think she threw Daria into Hell because she thinks the only things that were Heaven-material at the time were puppies and cats.

Nick:                                       Interesting interpretation.   I hadn't thought of that angle when I first read the story.  So where's the author now?

Rich:                                       Ted DeWitt-Clinton was a hard person to track down.  We found some old college records that indicated he went to GW but he apparently only went there two and a half years.  A college newspaper article at the time alleged that he was involved in a thesis paper scandal where he wrote papers for profit for other students.  But as the university officials couldn't prove he actually made any money at it since he apparently bartered for everything in gum, they dropped the case.  He dropped out of sight for the next 22 years until he re-appeared in the Caribbean as a gum-runner.

Geoff:                                     A gun-runner?

Jon:                                         No, a **gum-runner.  Once the Anti-Sugar League got its way in the House and Senate in 2026, I think he probably took it a little hard and headed to the sugar source where he was reportedly seen running blockades to get sugar and primarily gum to the American Republic's shores.  He did this for about 12 years until 2038's VLS scare managed to overturn too much P-C on the lawbooks and reopened Japanese vehicle, tobacco _and sugar traffic to our country's economy.  Once sugar and gum were no longer outlawed, Ted dropped out of sight.  Whereabouts unknown._**

Rich:                                       For all we know he could be feeding the fishes now.  Or have changed his name.  We came up with a dead end on that.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    What about Sandi?

Rich:                                       She wasn't as interesting as Ted so we didn't get too much of her bio.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    That wasn't part of the assignment.

Jon:                                         Technically, it was since it was Ted that actually did the writing and the assignment was to find the bio of the author.  However, she did contribute so we dug up a few things on her.

Rich:                                       Sandi Griffin went to a community college; didn't graduate.  She went to a business school to learn how to operate a computer; didn't graduate.  She went to beauty school; didn't graduate.  She apparently married at about age 24, however, to a Roger Levine.  He owned a 2nd hand furniture store which he built up over the next 35 years into a very large furniture business.  She was well off.  Had three kids, names unknown.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Why?

Rich:                                       We found notices in the paper of the kid's births but no names listed.  School records have been sealed.  No Levine's are listed here where she lived.  My guess is that they changed their names or moved after Roger Levine was convicted of embezzling his employee's retirement funds.  The articles we found on that dealt mostly with the trial and not with Sandi but it came out that Roger Levine had had a mistress he needed to support.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    So where's Sandi now?

Jon:                                         Sandi filed for divorce and was granted it since Roger was in jail.  She dropped out of the social circles when she lost everything she owned which was seized in order to pay back the retirement funds.  Penniless, she spent the next few years as a bag-lady around town.  About 2043, she had a near-death experience on the streets she wouldn't go into and sought out help.  She got it and is now working for the Salvation Army.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    What do you mean by, "she wouldn't go into"?  Did you contact her?

Rich:                                       Oh, yeah.  She's in the phonebook here under her maiden name.  Once we found her past which seemed to end when her husband went to jail and she was liquidated, we needed to look her up just to see what happened next.  And to see if she's had any contact with Ted or could steer us in the right direction.  She confirmed the rest of the bio, refused to give us her kids names and had no idea who Ted was.

Kara:                                       Was she still… bitchy?

Jon:                                         Actually, not at all.  She was very polite and happy to talk with us.  She seemed content with her life now.  When she talked about her ex, she wasn't bitter – just sad.

Bob:                                        That he'd been caught?

Jon:                                         I don't think so.  I had the impression that she was sad that he'd hurt others by raiding their retirement accounts.

Nick:                                       Good work, you two.  Who's up next?  Larissa, Barry – you two volunteering?  Good enough.

_NEXT:                                   Upchuck's Story: Oh, Brother… _

Contact me if you want:

jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).  

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed.  Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you.  A coincidence!   To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real.  Or could it?  I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	7. Upchuck's Story Oh, brother

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!**

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                                       Larissa?  Barry?  You two are up.  What did you find out?

Larissa:                                  That Charles Ruttheimer the 3rd wasn't as much a pig as I'd originally thought.

Barry:                                     Uh, what Larissa is trying to say is we've noticed references to Charles Ruttheimer, a.k.a. Upchuck, that gave us a little bias into his personality.

Larissa:                                  Meaning we thought he was a pig.

Barry:                                     Um, right.  Anyway, we started researching him after reading the story since it didn't match up to his, ah…

Larissa:                                  …pig-ishness?

Barry:                                     Look, do you want to give this intro or not?

Larissa:                                  Hey, you won the toss fair and square.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Something going on here that I should know about?

Barry:                                     No.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Fine.  Then Miss Simpson, why don't you continue with the intro.

Larissa:                                  Fine by me.  Okay, here's the scoop.  Before reading the story, we went into research mode.  We got the four yearbooks he showed up in and there were constant labelings of 'Upchuck' which I think most of you know.  So I started thinking who was this guy?  I found a couple of other people in the yearbook still around…

Barry:                                     Your grandmother.

Larissa:                                  Hey, she went to school when he did.  Anyway she remembered him.  And she thought he was a pig.  This and other references we found is what jaded us during our research.  Then we actually get around to reading the story.

Barry:                                     Snoozer.

Larissa:                                  It really wasn't that bad…

Nick:                                       Please, you two, no reactions until the story's been presented.  I'd like to let the audience make up their own minds if they like it or not.

Larissa:                                  Understood, Nick.  Anyway, after reading it we get with Nick here who is nice enough to find a couple video clips to set the story up and end it out.  Here's the story in sequential order.  Barry?

Barry:                                     Hmm?

Larissa:                                  The clicker, Barry.  Just cue the damn video.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

**BEGIN VIDEO**

Location: Lawndale High, hallway

Time: May, 2002

Charles Ruttheimer III comes up to both Daria and Jane who are standing at their lockers.  He has a CD in his hands that he holds out.

Upchuck:                               Here you go, my sweet Daria.

Daria:                                      Whatever it is you're handing to me better have been sterilized, Upchuck.

Upchuck:                               What a cruel thing to say.  Cruel, but feisty.  Rrrrowwrrrr.

Daria:                                      Can it.  What's this?

Upchuck:                               I heard that Mr. O'Neill had you transcribing the stories for the time capsule into an electronic medium.  This is my story – already formatted for your reading pleasure.

Jane:                                       I think I'm going to hurl.

Daria:                                      Pass the bucket when you're done.

Upchuck:                               I take you won't be reading it then?

Jane:                                       Now whatever gave you that idea.  The green tint to my skin right now?

Upchuck:                               But it's a story of love…

Daria:                                      Yeah, right.

Upchuck:                               Passion…

Daria:                                      Yeah, right.

Upchuck:                               Adventure…

Daria:                                      Yeah, right.

Upchuck:                               Betrayal…

Daria:                                      _That I believe._

Upchuck:                               Lies…

Daria:                                      It's got a catchy beat, but I just can't name that song.

Upchuck:                               And let's not forget, more passion.

Jane:                                       Alright, enough already.  You're giving me the heebie-jeebies.

Upchuck:                               Moi?

Daria:                                      Vouz.

Upchuck:                               I take it then, you won't be reading my masterpiece?

Daria:                                      I'll leave that for future generations to ponder.

Jane:                                       Don't look at me.  I'm not going near it.

Upchuck:                               A masterpiece for future generations to read you say.  What ever will they ever think of me?

Daria:                                      That you learned to read and write through Playboy correspondence school?

Jane:                                       Here, Daria.  Put that disk in this baggie so we don't get contaminated.

Upchuck:                               Farewell, ladies.  My duty here is done.

Daria puts the disk in the baggie as Upchuck leaves.

Jane:                                       Well, at least that's one story you don't have to read and correct grammar on.

Daria:                                      Yeah, I don't have to.

Jane:                                       I feel a big but coming on…

Daria:                                      But I'm going to anyway.

Jane:                                       Why?

Daria:                                      Because he didn't want us to.

Jane:                                       What?  He all but begged us to read it.

Daria:                                      No.  He all but begged us to read it and then gave us an out to _not read it.  There's a difference.  He's hiding something.  And I'm going to find out what it is._

END VIDEO 

**Oh, brother…**

**by Charles Ruttheimer, III**

**(Rrrrowrrr to you future-ladies)**

**(transcribed by: Steven A. Brown)**

Winter was a cruel time of the year.  The sun rose late and set early.  It meant you had to go to school when it was dark and if you had to stay late to get something else done, it was dark when you got home.  That was bad.  And even when you came home, what did you find?  It certainly wasn't a warm supper waiting for you.  It was you waiting for a warm supper.  That, or the vision of a bikini-clad lovely lady on the beach.  Only there wasn't a bikini-clad lady on the beach waiting for you.  Or a warm supper.  That was worse.

The thoughts of what winter really meant circled through Larry's mind as his legs pumped and pumped while he jogged along the streets early in the morning, before the sun had risen.  A November storm had come through town a few days before and left enough of its wake to keep the town closed up, trying to retain some vestiges of heat.  He ran past closed homes, shops, cars.  Pump, pump, pump.

Breath could be seen escaping through rapidly expanding and contracting lungs.  It was cold.  Jeez, it was cold.  He knew that if he stopped, within minutes the warm sweat down his back and legs would turn to cold sweat down his back and legs.  And that would be bad.  Not as bad as the poor sap who'd left his lights on the night before and would find out the hard way as he frantically tried to start a dead car, but hey, that was the business of winter.

Shift – red.  He picked up the pace as he ran past what he considered the big ol' freakin' Strawberry-thingie.  He headed for the park.  He thought back to yesterday's stress.  

He was at Max's Fix-It Shop manning the front desk, going through the bills when he saw a letter addressed to his uncle Max.  He opened it and read it like he did with all correspondence and bills that came in.  A few minutes later Hector Garcia came in from the garage.

"Hola, Larry.  Anything good in the mail today?"

"Usual crap, Hec," he responded.  "Bill, bill, bill, change in local zoning law now requiring me to go to Lawndale High…"

"Zoning law?" he inquired, a little puzzled over the word.  Understandable since he was still learning English as he studied for his citizenship.

"We'll go over the specifics of zoning laws next week, okay?  But basically some government stooge wants more of a tax base to pad his pockets so he goes and grabs whatever land they can – in this case, our little piece out here – and when a government does that, they disrupt people's lives by making them have to go to different schools and other crap like that."

"Will this be bad for you?" he asked, concerned.

"Not really, I guess.  It's not like I had any friends at my old school to begin with.  I get the fun of finishing the spring semester there but next year I have to go Lawndale High.  I feel like I have to go and start from the bottom again."

"I know what that feels like," Hector replied.

"I'm sure you do," he returned honestly.

He ran through the park, sprinting around trees, shrubs and park benches.  Red, red, red!  Lousy, good for nothing… he pulsed through his mind, fueling his dash like it did every morning when he worked on his stress levels.  He recalled over and over the major stress factor he'd gotten.

"So why you so down," Hector had asked.

"I got the bill from Vegas," Larry replied.

"Yeah…?"

"It was addressed to _Barry_."

"…they've got ca-ca on the brain."

Red shifted to white as the trees blurred.  It was the moment.  He sprinted a few more feet and jumped onto a park bench.  "BASTARD!!" he yelled as loud as he could.

He stood there panting a few more moments as the silence engulfed him again.  Winter did that – it kept people away from the park in the early morning and allowed him to run and vent when no one could interfere or ask him questions like… like… he dropped it.  There was no use allowing self pity in.  It served no positive purpose.  He could only hold it at bay if he released it now and then, which he'd just done.  Back in control, he jumped off the bench and continued his run.  He needed to get back to the shop.

He needed to finish out the semester at his school.  Oh, joy.  Then he had the summer to prepare for his last year at a new school.  Double joy.  He remembered an old saying: Tomorrow was always another day.

He liked his remake of that saying which went: Tomorrow was always another day of a new level of stress.

Sigh.  He was going to have to find a longer route.

*************

May slid in while it was still snowing.  However, by the end of the month, the cold was long gone.  Green grass assisted green leaves in showing that the world was full of weeds and other green things.  The day was warm.  

It was the last week of school before summer vacation.  There were still a few yearbooks left to purchase and Larry went to the open table and purchased one.  He looked through the relatively thin book and found his picture.  Ugh, he thought.  Still as lame a picture as in the last two yearbooks.

Yearbook in hand, he went to his classes.

By the end of the day his yearbook was still unsigned.  At home, he put it alongside the other two unsigned yearbooks on his bookshelf.  He hadn't been asked by anyone to sign theirs.  Deep down he had hoped he'd made friends this year but as usual, his classmates only thought of him when they needed something – not when they simply wanted to be around him.

That was the way it had been since he'd started going there three years ago.

He began to block those thoughts as he changed clothes and got into his work clothes.  He had a regular client whose monstrosity of a van he called a "Tank" needed engine work.  Again.

All he needed to do was get through one more year of school.  That was all.  Then he'd be in the clear.  One more year.

*************

The end of July was a miserable month to work on a hot car.  Especially if you were in a garage that had no swamp cooler.  Like Max's "You Break It, We Fix It" Fix-It shop.  Although primarily a garage that serviced cars, Max and his staff had branched out to other areas over the years as needed – such as when broken cars were in short supply but the bills didn't take that into consideration.

"C'mon, you stupid hunk…" Larry said under his breath, straining to get the last screw loosened on a radiator.  The rusted piece was wedged in good and tight.

"Need help?" Hector asked, wiping the grease from another car off his hands.

"Nah.  It's finally loose.  You get the Chevy's timing belt replaced?"

"Si, si.  One more month, eh?"

"Hmmm?" Larry asked distracted.

"One more month and then you go to new school.  Look forward to it?"

Larry stopped his work and looked at Hector.  He was a good guy.  Had been for years.  If he hadn't, Larry wouldn't have spent as much time as he'd had teaching him English.  "No, not really.  Nervous as hell is a better description."

"Why?"

"Well," Larry started, "here I am having to go to a new school and finish out my senior year at Lawndale.  I don't know why I couldn't have just stayed at my last school.  At least there I knew what to expect.  Going to a new school, I just don't know.  I just don't want to interface with them."

"Interact."

"What?"

"You said interface.  That computer term.  Manny always going on and on about computer stuff.  He say that a lot.  You mean interact."

"Your English is getting better," Larry grinned.

"Gracias.  But you not a computer.  You a man.  I think you use computer word to hide behind."

"Hector…"

"Larry…  You know problems you have at last school.  You need to find way to fit in."

"I tried that last time and look where it got me," Larry complained.

"I know.  But at time you were around cars and other jobs in town most of time.  You no make good impression not being with friends.  Now, you got me.  I take on extra work.  Give you time."

"Hector…"

"Larry…  New school, new people.  Give them a chance.  Who know, maybe something come up good.  Baby steps, remember?  That what you told me couple years ago when you hire me.  Baby steps.  Work now, study hard, get citizenship."

"Yeah, yeah.  Eye on the prize and all that.  You're a smart cookie, Hec."

"Gracias.  Speaking of food, how 'bout coming over to the house tonight.  Anna and kids always love to see you.  Especially Manny.  He look up to you."

"What's for dinner?"

"It Italian night so spaghetti and pizza."

"Pepperoni and extra grease?"

"Si."

"Anna sure likes that international cookbook she got last Christmas.  I'm there.  Thanks, Hec."

"Welcome.  You need interference today?"

"I don't think so.  I'm not expecting anyone.  I'll let you know, though."

*************

Fall was still a little ways off.  It was the ending days of summer, when it seemed to get hotter just because it could and stayed there to make life miserable for those without air-conditioning.  Red, red, red!

"BASTARD!" Larry yelled, then jumped off the park bench and continued his run.

Several hours later Larry stood in front of Lawndale High.  Students poured into the school for the first day of a new school year.  Whoopee.  Resigned, he opened the doors and went in.

"New student?" asked the voice of a receptionist in the school's front office.

"Yes.  My name is Larry Petersen and I'm transferring…"

"Got it.  Petersen, L.  You're with that group over there," she indicated to an empty corner.

"No one's there," he said, stating the obvious.

She looked up.  "Oh, for crying out loud.  Ms. Li, they all left again.  Now what do I do?!"  
  


"Contact Landooooon!  She'll take care of it," came a voice from another office.

Ten minutes later Jodie Landon walked alongside Larry.  "Down this hall is the cafeteria.  Don't eat there if you can help it.  Second floor has the science labs so try not to have any classes on the first floor under those rooms after lunch since there are a lot of clowns up there after lunch who aren't paying attention to chemical reactions as they're half asleep from eating bad food.  It's not like I don't have anything else to do anyway – so why not show the new kid around, grumble, grumble."

As she grumbled this out, a strange guy in a football uniform and a cheerleader walked towards them.  "Hey, Jodie.  Who's this?  Mack-Daddy's not getting competition is he?  Ho, ho, ho!"

"Kevvie," squeaked the blond cheerleader.  "Don't tell Jodie that, she can't help it if he's cute."

"Hi, Kevin, hi, Brittany.  Meet Larry Petersen, new kid and my current responsibility for the next six minutes until classes start."

"What do you mean, he's cute?  I'm cute, not him.  You said so this morning!"

"Kevvie!"

"Hey, pal, you going to try out for the team?" Kevin asked.  "No, wait.  You're too skinny.  Oh well.  Did I tell you I'm the QB?!"

"Do my eyes deceive me or is it the fair Jodie Landon?" a suave and sophisticated if yet feisty individual asked as Kevin left with Brittany.

"Go away, Upchuck," Jodie said.

"How was your weekend, Ms. Landon?" he asked.

"Upchuck, I'm not in the mood," she said tiredly.

"…look, all I'm saying is that if I had to lose an appendage and have a chainsaw grafted on in its place, losing my left hand wouldn't be the worst place to lose it," a dark haired girl said to an auburn haired girl as they walked by.

"Hey, Daria, Jane," Jodie said.

"Hey," replied one, then the other.

"I'm still saying the foot would be better to lose than a hand," the second girl replied.

"But how would you get around?  You can't walk on a chainsaw?"

"You get people to take you everywhere.  And that leaves your hands free for other things."

"Such as?" the dark haired girl asked.

"Pistol whippings," the other replied.

"…you know, a good pistol whipping isn't something we should discard right now.  Get lost, Upchuck!"

The red headed individual with the feisty freckles departed alone.

"Who's this?" a nasal voice asked.

Larry turned around and saw four girls looking at him.  He had the feeling they were eyeing him over like a piece of beef.

"Oh, hi, Sandi.  Quinn.  This is Larry Petersen, a new transfer student," Jodie said.

"Trans… transfer…?" one of the other girls asked.

"Transfer student," supplied the fourth girl.  "Hi, my name's Stacy.  This is Tiffany."

"Hi," Larry said, offering his hand.

Sandi, the one with the nasal voice looked at it with disdain.  "Like, I don't think so.  C'mon, everyone.  Immediate accessory meeting."  They shuffled off.

Larry took a quick glance at himself in a window reflection.  He didn't think he looked that bad.  Sure, he had on blue jeans, sneakers and a red t-shirt but none of them were grease-stained or dirty.  He wasn't wearing his baseball cap like he normally did and he'd even gotten his hair cut a few weeks back.  There was a little grease under his nails but he had long since given up trying to get them completely clean.

"Hey, Ted," Jodie said to another person who came up.

"Hi, Jodie," he replied in an upbeat way.  "How are you?  Ready for another fun filled semester?"

"Sure, Ted," Jodie sarcasmed.

"Great!" Ted replied, not really having heard the subtly.  "Do you by chance have any… gum?"

"Sorry, no."

"Darn."

"This is Larry Petersen, a new transfer student," she supplied.

"Do you by chance have any… gum?" he asked.

"No," Larry said.  With that, Ted was off.  Probably to locate some gum.

"Hey, guys," Jodie said to a trio of individuals walking by.

"Hi, Jodie," they greeted.

"Joey, Jeffy, Jamie, this is Larry Petersen.  He's a new transfer student."

"Hey, you're not going to try to go out with Quinn, are you?" Joey or Jamie or Jeffy asked.

"You'd better not since I'm her boyfriend," Joey or Jamie or Jeffy said.

"Um, I don't know who she…" Larry started.

"And she only goes out with us anyway, buster, so don't even get any ideas," Joey or Jamie or Jeffy said.

"Yeah, if you try to go out with her, we'll have some words outside," Joey or Jamie or Jeffy said.

"Yeah, and… hey, Quinn!  Wait up!  Are you doing anything tonight?!" Joey or Jamie or Jeffy asked.

"Can I carry your bags?!" Joey or Jamie or Jeffy asked.

"Can I carry your bags and go out with you tonight?!" Joey or Jamie or Jeffy asked.

As they left, Jodie asked, "So, Larry, have you given any thought about joining an after school activity like fund raising or… advanced fund raising?"

Before he could reply with a resounding "no", overhead speakers staticed to life.  "Miss Landon, please report to the principal's office immmmmmmeeediatelyy.  Work doesn't wait for the slothful, you know."

"One of these days," she groused.  Eyes downcast, she went towards her fate.

The school bell rang sharply a moment later and kids headed for classes.  Within moments he was alone in the hallway, looking for his classroom.  He summed up his first 15 minutes with, "Looks like it's going to be another day in paradise."

*************

Afternoons after lunch dragged.  It was almost as if time itself worked against students.  And teachers.  And worse yet was when you were assigned to an after school self esteem class by some shrink nutjob who thought she was doing you a favor by punishing you.  Larry entertained these thoughts as the students filtered out of the first self esteem class.  The first of many.

God, he needed to get out of this if only to keep his sanity.  Fortunately he'd been thinking of a way to get out for the last hour instead of partaking in any of the psychobabble.  Once the rest of the kids left, he went up to the instructor who was also his English instructor, Mr. O'Neill.

"Mr. O'Neill?"

"Yes?  Leroy, right?"

"Larry.  I was wondering if I could take this class as an independent study?  I learn better on my own anyway."

"I'm sorry, but this is a participation class.  You'll get more out of it.  You'll get to know more kids at school this way.  This is a journey I'm sure you'll enjoy."

"All the students I've met are nuts.  I don't want to get to know them," Larry said honestly.

"Now that's the wrong attitude to take," Mr. O'Neill said.

"Yeah, I know," Larry replied.  "Tell you what, how about I make a more concentrated effort to get along with others and meet with you every day and give you an update.  That way you can determine for yourself if I'm making headway.  If no headway, then I come back to the esteem class.  Deal?"

"This is highly irregular…" Mr. O'Neill started.

"But it's one of the perks of being a teacher, right?" Larry finished.

Mr. O'Neill thought about it for a minute.  "Since you put it that way, I guess it is.  Okay, deal it is.  But I want to really work at getting to know others and let me know how you feel."

*************

"…so that's the assignment.  Write a story about 2000 words long due in three weeks.  Now let's put our thinking caps on, split up into groups of two and spend the rest of the class brainstorming those wonderful ideas I know each and every one of you have.  And remember, you only get out of this assignment what you put in to it," Mr. O'Neill said to a vacant class.

"Does that mean if I put more effort into _not doing the assignment and then actually __don't follow through with writing anything I'll pass since I __will have gotten out of this assignment what I put into it?" Daria Morgendorffer asked subtly._

Mr. O'Neill gave it some thought as the rest of the class paired off.  "No, I think with that little effort going into the assignment I would then have to give you a corresponding lack of grade," he replied, catching on after having heard her remarks for the past few years.

"Can't blame a girl for trying," her friend replied as she moved her desk to face Daria.

In an opposite corner, two other students moved their desks to face each other.  "Hi, my name's Larry," he said quietly to the red head with freckles who sat across from him, extending a handshake.

"Charles Ruttheimer.  I've seen you in school, haven't I?  A few weeks ago, when Jodie was doing the new student rounds, right?"

"Yeah.  Transferred in for my senior year."

"More's the pity you," he replied.

"Tell me about it."

*************

"So?" Charles asked, sitting at his desk in the English class they shared.  "You get it done?"

Larry looked over at Charles and nodded.  "Yeah, I read it.  It's, well…"

"Yeah?" he asked anxiously, unsure where Larry was going with his review of O'Neill's assignment from a week ago.

"Truthfully, it's B- work, Chuck."

"What?  Why?"

"If Mr. O'Neill was grading on imagery, you'd get an A.  That part was great.  Pacing was a little slow in areas, but overall I liked it.  Not too slow, not too fast.  Comfortable.  The characters were also well defined.  I liked the background references to Birch and O'Shea as well as the Dana and Joan friendships.  It showed thought.  But the dialog.  I'm sorry, but it was a little… stiff."

"In what way?" Charles asked, listening.

"They each sounded as if they'd swallowed an encyclopedia and dictionary.  The words were correctly done but they didn't match up with the characterizations.  You know what I mean?"

Charles considered this.  "I think so," he finally said.

"Look, Chuck, I know you can do better.  I'm sure of it," Larry encouraged.

Charles took his story back from Larry.  He looked at the comments in the margins and saw that Larry had enjoyed the story even with the "stiff" dialog.

"How about my story?" Larry asked.

"I finished it," Charles replied.  "It was very good and I feel a little bad that I can't tell you where you need to improve on.  I liked all parts of it."

"But?" Larry prompted.

"But, um, it was like a bar band."

"I don't understand the reference."

"A bar band.  You go to a bar, listen to the band, enjoy the music and 10 minutes after leaving the bar, you forget about them.  I guess what I'm trying to say is that it wasn't memorable."

Larry sat back in his desk.  "Yeah, I was afraid of that.  It's missing something but I don't know what."

"It's A-work, no doubt about it," Charles replied.  "But if you want to do better on it, then you're going to need to talk to someone other than me about it."

"Who do you suggest?" Larry asked.

"Have you met Daria Morgendorffer?" he suggested.

*************

"Don't look now, but here comes trouble," Jane said to her friend, looking up from the cafeteria table.

"Somebody gave their kid the name 'Trouble'?  What were they thinking?  I bet they were hippies or something."

"One of these days, Morgendorffer…  Pow, zoom!  To the moon!" Jane grinned.

"Um, excuse me," Larry said with a little trepidation.  "Daria Morgendorffer, right?"

"Don't answer that," Jane warned.  "You ain't got nothing on us, man.  We weren't even in town that night.  We were in Buffalo."

"She always like this?" he asked, confused.

"Only to people she knows she can befuddle."

"Well, then I guess my fuddle's been be'd."

"Huh?" Jane asked.

"What can I do for you?" Daria asked.

"Um, I was kind of hoping you might review my story for Mr. O'Neill's assignment."

"Sorry, but that would entail work and if it's anything I don't do it's work."

"Sounds to me like you're _working on finding a way to get out of reviewing my story."_

"He's got a point, Daria."

"Actually, that's my standard answer.  So technically, I'd already _worked it out and therefore am not in the process of working now."_

"She's got a point, stranger."

"Who's side are you on anyway?" Larry asked.

"My side," Jane replied honestly.  "Always."

"Fair enough.  My name's Larry Petersen, not stranger.  I'd heard you were the best writer in town, Daria, and was hoping you could help me get better."

"Oooohhh, flattery," Jane commented.

"It won't get you anywhere," Daria said stonefaced.

"How about five bucks then?" he asked, opening negotiations.

"You couldn't even get me to change your punctuation for that.  I'll give you an introductory price of $300."

"Ouch.  A little too high for me.  Tell you what, how about we do some sort of barter for it?"

"Well, unless you can fix my PC I really don't have anything that needs working on since I don't have a car yet."

"Problem?" Larry prompted.

"It's either the mother board or the BIOS."

Larry stood, pondering it over.  "Okay, I'll do it.  I'll even fix your PC upfront so you have the opportunity to see if the job is up to par.  If not, no work on your part will be required.  Fair enough?"

"Um, yeah."

"Good.  Can we do it after school?  The only free time I have this week is today."

"Um, yeah."

Later that afternoon, Larry said, "Okay, boot it up."

Daria did and the system came up without any errors.  "Good job.  Thank you.  How did you know it was the BIOS?"

"I had the same problem last year.  Look, if you have any problems let me know and we'll troubleshoot it as needed, okay?"

"Um, yeah.  I'll begin reviewing your story and get back to you."

"Time?"

"Let's say by next Wednesday.  Fair enough?"

"Sure.  And, thanks."  Larry collected his tools and Daria escorted him downstairs.  The front door opened before they got to it and Mr. Morgendorffer burst in.

"What is it?!  What's wrong?!" he asked, panic in his voice.

"What're you talking about?" Daria asked calmly.

"What's broken?  It's the stove, isn't it?  Shoddy workmanship!  I knew I shouldn't have bought it over the internet!  Oh, when will I ever learn?!  The house almost burned down again.  Is it fixed?  Who fixed it?  Did you fix it?  Who're you?"

"My name is Larry and if I understand you right, then no, I wouldn't know, no – you shouldn't have bought it over the internet, hopefully sometime, no it didn't, it wasn't broken, and I didn't do it."

"Huh?" he asked.

"Dad, this is Larry, from school.  He came over to fix my PC, nothing else.  It's working again so he's leaving."

"Oh, heh, heh.  Sorry about that.  Saw the Fix-It logo on your truck outside and I guess I…"

"…was concerned for your family," Larry completed for him.  "Yes, I can see that.  Well, Daria, thank you again for taking the time to review the story.  Sir, have a good evening."  Larry headed for his truck.

"Say, m'man," Mr. Morgendorffer said trying to sound more grown up than he had a few minutes ago.  "Do you repair cars?  I mean, my Lexus needs a tune-up and I haven't had time to take it to the shop or anything.  How much would you charge to get it done?"

"Now?"

"Um, yeah."

"Hmmmm.  It's after 5pm.  That means overtime.  Take into consideration that I'll have to run to the parts store before it closes.  How about… you pay cost for all parts and in exchange I'll take a home-cooked meal."

"Deal!"

An hour later, Mrs. Morgendorffer drove up the driveway in her SUV.  She had noticed the Fix-It logo on the truck parked alongside the curb in front of the house and wondered if Jake's internet-stove had exploded.  If it had, it wasn't going to be the only thing that exploded.

She got out and then noticed someone was under the hood of Jake's Lexus.  "Hello?" she called out.  "Excuse me, but who are you?"

Larry stopped his work and stood up.  "Hi.  My name's Larry Petersen.  I'd shake your hand but I don't think you'd want grease on it."

"I'm Mrs. Morgendorffer.  What're you doing on my husband's car?"

"Tune up, ma'am.  Your husband said it needed to get done and he wasn't kidding.  These sparks are black.  I'm surprised he hasn't noticed any lack of compression in the engine."

"You'd be surprised," Mrs. Morgendorffer sarcasmed as she thought of the way her husband drove his car – which was pedal to the metal and fist outside the window as he screamed for others to get out of his way.  "How much is this costing us by the way?  I want you to know that I check all prices in as a means of comparison shopping…"

"Ma'am, all I'm charging is dinner."

"That's all?"

"That and the cost of parts.  But Jake and I already went out and got those earlier."

"Tell me, how did Jake find your services?  Did you stop by his office?"

"Not quite.  I go to school with your daughter, Daria.  She's going to review a story I wrote and in exchange I fixed her PC today.  Your husband asked me to do the tune up after I finished with her PC."

"Yo, Larry," Jake said, coming outside, apron on.  "Dinner's almost on.  You at a stopping point?"

"I've finished the tune up and oil change, Mr. Morgendorffer.  But I noticed the wiring around your battery is getting eaten by acid.  You want, I'll fix that after dinner."

"No problem, m'man.  But I told you to call me Jake.  Anyway, get cleaned up.  Bathroom is around the corner as you go in the front door."

"I'll be right there."

Larry put his tools away and then went inside.  A few minutes later he came out of the bathroom to yet another person asking him questions.  "Who're you?  What're you doing in the bathroom?  Is that your truck outside?  What's getting fixed?  Is it the stove?"

"I'm here to fix Daria's…"

"Daria's getting fixed?  You're probably working on her closet or seeing if you can move that bathroom into her room.  That's not fair – why should she get someone to fix her wardrobe when I don't?  Or have their own bathroom when I don't!  Mo-oooom!"

Puzzled, Larry headed for the kitchen where Jake directed him to a chair.  Larry listened to Jake and Mrs. Morgendorffer explain to their other daughter, Quinn, who he was and what he was actually fixing.  She seemed relieved to know that Daria wasn't getting anything better than she was.  Conversations ran around Larry as Jake served up dinner.

"So, young man.  What are your goals?" Mrs. Morgendorffer asked after everyone had gotten something to eat and was in the final process of picking around Jake's add-in's to normal lasagna (except for Larry who ate everything).

"Well, I'd like to finish dinner and then finish fixing Jake's car," Larry replied candidly.  Daria coughed into a napkin.

"No, no," Helen corrected.  "I mean, what are your eventual goals?"

Larry had a pretty good idea what was going on here.  He had been on a few dates over the years that always turned into the meet-the-parents fiasco.  She was sizing him up.  Truth be told, he could see her point.  He was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans that had seen better days several years ago.  His hands were still grimy with accumulated grease from a thousand oil jobs under his nails.  He had slicked back his hair to hide the hat-hair impression but there was never a way to remove it entirely unless he washed it.  His whole appearance screamed blue-collar worker.  And obviously, that just wasn't good enough for one of her daughters to date.

It didn't seem to matter to her that he wasn't dating any of her daughters either.  She was trying to size him up and let him knew where she stood on matters.  "Well, ma'am," he said, "I'd like to graduate high school and go to college."

"No, no, no," she said again.  "I meant, what are your _long term goals?"_

Quinn stopped her latest brainstorm on compromising Daria's wardrobe fix in order to get those funds shifted to her since she was having difficulty coming up with a fresh angle and instead listened to Larry.  

Mrs. Morgendorffer had been trying to keep the tone conversational in order to gather anything she could, a trait she had used with the law firm for the past few years.  However, with this little question, he turned serious.  She could tell as he said, "Well, ma'am, I'd like to have something that I can't have now.  I'm going to eventually meet the right person and when that happens I'm going to tell her that I love her every day for the rest of my life.  We'll have kids and I'm going to tell them I love them every day for the rest of my life as well.  I'm going to make sure they're happy and well cared for and always welcome in my home."

As Larry spoke, Quinn's eyes softened and her imagination began to drift.  That sounds dreamy, she thought, smiling.  Then she noticed the grease under his fingernails.  She quickly snapped out of her vision of living her life with a… a repair man! and shuddered, involuntarily mouthing, "Ewwwww."  That was worse than when she'd begun to fall for that computer geek at the hotel!

Daria took another look at Larry, rethinking what she had initially pigeonholed him into which was that of a non-thinking lout who could only focus on cars and football.

Mrs. Morgendorffer refused to lose her grip on the subject.  "Actually, I meant what are your goals, career-wise?"

"Well, I've always thought that once I found my true love, everything else would just be gravy.  I can always find something to do."

"How long have you lived in Lawndale?"

"Seven years."

"Do you participate in any activities in school?"

"No," he replied, finishing his dinner.

"Why not?"

"I have a business to run."

"You own it?"

"No.  My uncle Max owned it.  But he's a little under the weather these days so I run it for him."

Daria looked at Larry, reflecting on what he said but not sure if she heard it right.

"Where are your parents?"

Larry struggled on this.  It was something that was asked of him every year, but it was still hard to say even after all these years.  He finally managed, "When I was little, my mother went away and it was just me and my dad.  Then, seven years ago it became just me and my uncle."

"You like being with your uncle?" Daria asked, breaking her mother's train of questions.

"Oh, yeah.  He's a better parent than mine ever were.  He taught me everything I know about fixing things.  'Never assume and always question' was the motto he drummed into my head."

"That sounds like you, mom," Daria commented.

"Daria, please."

Jake laughed aloud, getting up and picking up the dirty dishes.

"Thank you for dinner, Jake, Mrs. Morgendorffer.  But if you'll excuse me, I'd like to finish fixing the car while the light's still good."

After Jake finished putting the leftovers away and the dishes to soak in the sink, he went outside to check on Larry's progress.  "Hey, m'man, what's the word?"

"Hey, Jake.  Almost done here.  Cable work isn't that hard, it's just time consuming."

"Uh, listen.  I'm sorry about what happened with Helen at dinner…" Jake trailed off.

"No problem.  I've had experience with this before."

"Yeah?  How do you handle it?"

"Usually I find out what's the score and then fix it if I can.  Diffuse it if need be.  But don't ignore it.  It's like… no, I'd better not say.  It's not my place."

"What?  It won't go any further than us."

"Um, okay.  I've only known your wife since this evening and I can tell you the best thing you could do for her is to break her cell phone for a weekend.  She seems tied to it which I'm sure has got to be a strain on you."

"You have no idea.  I'd love to break that damn thing.  I did once.  Broke it into a hundred pieces.  Except it was during a big case and she went crazy.  Not for the first time, I tell you.  So what does she do but go and get a warranty plan that covers husband-destruction of phones.  Now she's covered under this plan and… I don't think I should be saying any more than this."

"I think you're right, Jake.  Look, you seem like a good guy and I can tell you care about your family.  If you can't talk to your wife then at least try to have a dialog with one of your daughters."

"What do you mean?  I talk to them all the time."

"Not from what I saw at dinner tonight.  At least, not with Daria."

"Well, she doesn't want to participate in any conversations."

"Not true.  I've noticed that she participates in conversations with her friend at school all the time."

"Then why doesn't she want to talk to me, dammit?"

"Have you ever tried actually talking to her?  I mean, actually talking with her about something of relevance other than simply putting in the customary idle chitchat?  Can you hand me those wrenches, please?  Thanks."

"Sure I do.  All the time."  Jake sounded unsure.

"Really?  And what do you talk about?"

"Lots of stuff.  School, job, college…"

"Uh-huh.  But when was the last time you actually talked about the way you feel when you're with her?"

"What do you mean?"

Larry stopped his work and looked at Jake.  "I'm not sure I'm explaining myself the right way.  It's what I saw at dinner that popped this idea in my head.  I saw both Quinn and your wife talking about clothes, events, meetings.  They were on the same wavelength, you know?  They were communicating even without saying anything and that was okay with them.  Then there was you.  You tried to participate in their conversation but really weren't connecting.  Yet you tried.  Then there was Daria.  She didn't chime in at all.  She sat there and the few times you asked her questions, I had the feeling they were the same questions you've probably asked her yesterday and the day before and so on.  It was like a routine you all had that she didn't want to participate in."

"But when I try to get her involved in the conversation yet she doesn't want to get in.  I don't know what else I can do to get her to open up."

Larry returned to the job.  "Maybe it's the conversation itself that she's not interested in.  Have you ever tried just having a conversation with her – _about her?  When was the last time you let her know how much she means to you?  That might be an opening.  It's just that I had the feeling that Daria doesn't say anything because she already feels left out of the conversation and saying anything would prove how distant she actually is and drive her and the rest of you further apart.  But keep in mind that's just my opinion.  I could be totally wrong.  Okay, give the key a turn and let's see if I did some good work."_

The engine turned over on the first try.  Larry gathered his tools, loaded his truck, shook Jake's hand and left.

Jake watched him go, thinking.

*************

Jake sat in his office, thinking.  The phone rang, he answered it absently and when the voice on the other end wanted to know what he thought of the latest marketing concepts being used in corporate America, he said what was on his mind, not bothering to waste any time sucking up to the potential client.  He then hung up the phone, still thinking.

The phone began ringing a few minutes later and this time Jake let it go.  He had more important things to attend to.  The caller would either have to leave a message for him – or not.  He didn't really care as he grabbed his jacket, closed the office and drove home.

Jake drove home, calm and reflective vs. his normal psychotic state, shouting for other cars to move out of his way all the while shaking his fist in the air.  He made better time getting home, strangely enough, but he didn't think about that.  He didn't even notice the time or the traffic.  He was lost in thought.

As he entered the house, he listened for activity.  He could hear the TV in the family room.  "Hi, kiddo," he greeted.

"Hey," his daughter commented, not looking away from her program.  "Mom's working late and Quinn had a fashion emergency which necessitated her getting mom's gold card.  I've already eaten.  Dinner's leftovers."

Jake stood there and surveyed his kingdom.  A man's house was his castle and all that.  He could see the cracks in the foundation and the barbarians at the gates.  Well, not literally since that many people would've been considered a mob and the police would've used tear gas to break them up, but they were there nonetheless.

"Daria?  You have a minute to help me outside?" he asked.

"TV," she replied, pointing.

"VCR," he pointed.

"Damn," she conceded and went outside with her old man.  The sun was still high enough in late September that darkness was hours away.  He walked past his car and continued down the sidewalk.  

Daria followed, puzzled.  She had figured he was going to need some help bringing in some files or something from the car.  "Um, dad?  Where are we going?"

"Out for some fresh air," he replied, stealing a glance at his daughter.

"This is fresh air?  Give me the polluted skies of a friendly city anytime."

He grinned at that.

"So what's up?" she asked.  "Where're we going?  You do realize I know my way home so you can't simply take me to the woods and let me go free."

"Well," he started.  "I need your help on something that's been on my mind lately.  I've been going over and over what your friend Larry said at dinner last night."

"That he didn't like broccoli?"

"Nope.  Not that I can blame him.  All that green weed in one bite?  Eeeeewwwww.  No, it was his description of what he planned on doing when he got married and had kids."

"What?  Oh, you mean the hippie talk?"

"The hippie talk, yes.  You know, that was the same kind of idea your mother and I had when we were younger.  I think along the way we just sort of… forgot about it."  He stopped and looked her in the eye.  "Daria, I want to let you know that I love you very much.  And I'm happy you're my daughter.  I'm sorry I haven't told you that more often."

Daria stood speechless.  This wasn't normal.  "Um," she started.

Jake began walking again before Daria said anything else.  She hurried to catch up.  He was grinning.  "Y'know, when you were a lot younger, I used to take you for a walk in your buggy everyday once I got home from work."

"Really?" Daria said, avoiding the previous comment.

"Sure.  It was the only way to get you to take a nap so your mother and I could have some quiet time.  When you were little you wanted books, television – anything to invigorate your mind.  Doing a walk was boring which meant after about five minutes you were out."

"So that's why I don't like nature," she quipped.

"Anything's possible.  Anyway, along came Quinn and work and then everything got harder and harder to do, and my mind just forgot.  I've missed out on a lot of walks with you but I'm hoping to change that."

"I don't do exercise.  Jane knows that.  So should you."

"Good, because my feet are killing me in these shoes.  Damn 10-minute shoes.  Let's go home."

They finished walking the block and started up the walk to their front door.  As Jake opened it for his daughter, she looked up to him and said, "I love you too, dad."

*************

"Four down.  An escaped criminal, starting with the letter 'c'," Daria said.

"Easy.  Cannon fodder," Jake replied.

"Dad, there's only seven letters."

"Yeah, but the first one starts with a 'c' doesn't it?  That's what the old man used to say to me if I tried to get out of KP.  He'd say, 'Son, you get them dishes done right or you're cannon fodder come morning – got it?'  Lousy bastard."

"Dad…" Daria warned.

"Okay, okay, 'cannon fodder' has too many letters.  It's convict.  C'mon, kiddo, you've got to lighten up."

Daria wrote it in as her mother came rushing into the kitchen.  "Jake, have you seen my…" Breep-breep.  "Hello?  No, Eric, this isn't a bad time.  They what?"

"Daria, I need you to cover…" Quinn started and stopped as she came into the kitchen, seeing her parents there.  "…um, cover your bed.  That's it.  Heh-heh.  Um, sorry, dad.  Won't be here for dinner.  Fashion emergency over at Sandi's.  Be back late."

Daria whispered into her father's ear as Quinn turned to leave.

"Have fun on your date, Quinn," Jake said to his departing daughter.

"Ooooohhhh!  Daria!" Quinn exploded as she went through the front door before her mother stopped her.  As if she had listened anyway.

Daria and Jake went back to their crossword puzzle when Quinn left.  Helen, distracted by the sound of a door slamming turned to ask Jake what was going on but saw he was involved with Daria on something.  She almost asked what they were doing before another question in her ear distracted her for the rest of the night.

*************

"Don't look now, but here comes trouble," Jane said.

"Somebody gave their kid the name 'Trouble'?  What were they thinking?  I bet they were hippies or something."

"One of these days, Petersen…  Pow, zoom!  To the moon!" Jane grinned.

"Hey," Daria said sitting down at the library table.  "I had another meeting with Mrs. Manson after sending Mr. O'Neill crying to her the other day."

"That was you?" Larry asked.

"Hey, you were there, remember?" Jane asked.

"True.  But I'm glad to know it wasn't my story that sent him over the edge.  I mean, if I'm going to send someone nuts with my work I want to do it intentionally.  Not because my work sucks so bad they get screaming fits from it."

"It can't be all that bad," Jane said.  "I mean, Daria read it and she's not crying is she?"

"True," Larry responded.  "But then I don't think Daria's entirely sane."

"Awww, you're just saying that to get on my good side," Daria replied mockingly.

"You have a good side?" Jane asked with a straight face.

"One of these days, Lane, just one of these days," she warned.

"Daria, you still looking for a car?  If so, let me know and I'll check it out and make sure you're not getting a lemon."

"Thanks," she replied.

"Hey, can I get in on this?" Jane asked.  "What kind of car do you think I should get?"

Larry looked at her and said, "Hmmmm.  I don't see you as a car type.  I see you more as a biker chick."

"Ooohhh, a motorcycle, eh?  What about Daria?  How Harley-esq do you think she is?"

"None," he replied.

"Why?" Daria asked.  "You don't think I can handle a motorcycle?"

"It's not that," Larry said.  "I just see you more as a truck-type."

"Why?" she asked again.  "Because you have one?"

"No.  Because if you were ever nervous about driving, thinking you would get hurt in an accident, then driving a truck is the way to go.  With it you don't worry about small cars.  You simply run over them if they get in your way.  Of course you'll be spending quite a bit of time in the car wash prying them out of your fenders but hey, that's the price you have to pay for peace of mind."

Daria looked at Jane.  "What kind of car does Trent want to buy you for a graduation present again?"

"Um, a pinto."

Daria and Larry looked at each other and nodded.  Daria said, "A truck it is then."

"Eeep!" eeeped Jane.  Then, "Do you know anything about musical equipment, Larry?"

"Sure.  Drums go boom and draw kids to them in department stores."

"How about amps?"

"Hey, amps is amps," he replied.

"I take it you can fix amps?"

"I know basic wiring.  But what I can't figure out, I just go to the internet and download specs for what I don't know.  So yeah, I'd be able to fix an amp."

"Would you be willing to barter on a job to fix some amps?  Mystik Spiral's feedback is ruining my concentration while painting."

"Hmmmm.  Tell you what."  He pulled an old, faded, wrinkled picture out of his wallet along with another one that was new.  "This is a picture of my parents.  Here's a picture of me.  How about you do a portrait of them with me in the middle and we'll call it even?"

"Deal," she said.

*************

Several days later Larry opened the garage door of the Lane residence.  He went back to his truck and hefted an amp up on his shoulder and brought it into the cluttered garage, looking for a place to put it.  Jane had told him Trent was due back in town that evening and wanted the amps fixed in time for his birthday the next day.  He was moving a box of… something "clay-ish" when the door to the kitchen opened up and a mostly squinting dark haired man sporting a triangular goatee came out with a baseball bat.

"Hey, man, why're you stealing my band's amps?" he asked calmly.  His body reflected a stark contrast to his calm voice, screaming its own intentions of wanting to beat Larry senseless and then ask questions.

"Uh, I'm not stealing them.  I'm returning them," Larry said nervously, his heart rate returning to normal from its sudden spike.

The man blinked his eyes, focusing them.  "Do I know you?"  He blinked some more.  "You work at Max's Fix-It Shop don't you?"

"Yeah," Larry admitted.  "Do you mind if I ask who you are?"

"I usually drive my car over there when Jesse is dropping off the Tank for repairs.  That's where I recognize you from.  Whew.  I thought I was having flashbacks, man."

"Oh, you're a friend of Jesse's?  I haven't seen him in a couple months.  Hope that means the repairs are holding and the Tank hasn't crapped out instead."

The tall, semi-conscious man finally lowered the bat and scratched his head.  "The Tank's cool, man."

"Good to hear it.  Um, I take it you're Trent, Jane's brother?"

"Yeah.  So what's the deal with the amps, man?"

"You found the amps, dude?" a muscular man missing his shirt said, walking up the driveway.

"Yeah.  This guy's got 'em, Jesse."

"Larry?  You're stealing our amps, dude?"

Larry sighed and put the amp down since it was heavy enough to transport it let alone hold it for any length of time when he didn't have to.  "No.  Actually, I was fixing them.  They certainly had enough bad wiring.  The rest of the amps are in the truck."

"Why're you doing that, man?"

Larry looked Trent in the eyes and simply said, "Happy Birthday."

"Whoa, dude.  He knows your birthday.  That's freaky."

Trent looked at him critically.  "No way, man.  He didn't know it was my birthday.  This is Jane's doing, isn't it?"

Larry nodded.

"You fix cars, you fix amps.  I don't suppose you know anything about fixing a kiln that kind of, cough, got a little cracked when some harsh sonics bombarded it the other day would you?"

Larry smiled and said, "Tell you what.  I'm pretty sure I can learn to fix it if I don't know how to do it upfront.  You keep our little conversation here quiet from Jane and also act surprised on your birthday and I'll only charge for materials and mileage."

"Cool."  Trent and Larry shook hands on it.  "But if you don't mind me asking, why so cheap?"

"Jane's doing a project for me and I think I'm getting the better end of the bargain on it anyway."

*************

"Hey, Janey," Trent said as he came into Jane's room later that evening.  She was working on a painting like she always was and was oblivious to him until he was almost on her.

"Oh, hey, Trent.  I thought you weren't going to be back until tomorrow but I saw your car earlier.  When did you get back?"

"This morning.  I was pretty tired so I just had to get some sleep."

"Like that's anything new?" she grinned.  "Good to have you home.  How was the gig?"

"Cool.  Hey, that looks like Larry," he said, pointing to the canvas.

"Yeah.  He asked me to do a portrait of his parents and him."

"He must really like his parents if he's going to all this trouble to surprise them with a portrait and all."

Jane put the brush down and proceeded to squeeze some more paint out of a tube.  "Not really.  I talked to Daria a few days ago and she told me his parents are dead.  I think he's doing this in memory of them."

Trent thought about it.  He was at a loss for words.  He didn't really know his own folks, but at least he had them.  Sort of.  But Larry didn't even have that.

"I heard that Larry lives with an uncle on the outskirts of town.  By the way, Trent.  How do you know about Larry?"

"Um," Trent started for the door.

"Trent!"

*************

Leaves turned color and the pro football season swung into full gear, all of which meant that it was getting colder and more insulating clothes were required when Jane went for a run.  She surprised herself by not only getting up early one morning, but getting up early while not needing coffee to do it.  Barely.

She put on a layer of spandex and then a layer of sweats with a fleece vest on top of that.  She was ready – or would have been only if she could find her shoe.  Trent had had a gig last night and when he came home, had been wired enough to stay awake (if only long enough) to make it to the couch and turn on the TV.  Jane searched for her shoe in all its usual places but dammit if the little bugger hadn't gotten up and run off.

Static snow was showing on the TV as the station had gone off the air several hours earlier.  It was still dark outside and Trent snored softly on the couch.  Jane went over to turn the TV off and nearly fell over her shoe.  That's right, she remembered.  She'd used it to turn the TV off last night when she'd gone to bed.  She had been on the steps going up and saw it on.  She'd taken her shoe and threw it at the TV's power button, a trick that never worked and usually required the other shoe as well as the obligatory trip back downstairs to turn off the TV, pick up the shoes and put whatever she'd broken into the trashcan.  But this time it'd worked.  So she went to bed and forgot about it.

Now fully dressed, she stretched for a bit and then went out to face the cold air.  There was a crispness to the air at that time of the morning, a feeling that she liked.  It was actually an hour earlier than when she liked to run but the weird dream she'd had about being a klutz who kept having danish after danish land on her face and head had finally gotten the best of her.  So naturally she had gotten up, had a danish and then felt it was time to burn those danish calories off the best way possible.

Go for a run.

She was out running for 15 minutes, just starting to get in stride when she noticed that she wasn't alone in the early, early morning.  A couple blocks up she noticed another runner just turning the corner and heading away from her.  She wasn't sure but she though it was Larry.  She picked up her pace.

They were running through the park when he suddenly sprinted down a stretch and jumped onto a bench, shouting, "BASTARD!!"  She slowed herself down as she came up to the bench.  He was still standing there, breathing in and out, the puffs of his breath seen as the sun began to peek over the horizon.  

It was Larry alright.  She recognized his face, but the fury that was emanating from him was unreal.  She hadn't seen that side of him before.

"Yo," she greeted.

Larry spun and noticed Jane.  He jumped off the bench and closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm.  He didn't want her to catch him like this.  He knew he didn't look the best after he went red.  "Hey, Jane.  No Daria this morning?"

She laughed.  "You kidding?  This is a form of work for her and you know her rules on work."

"I didn't know you jogged," he said, massaging a crick in his neck that had been bothering him the last six miles.

"I enjoy it," she replied.  "So what was that?"

Crap.  She'd seen him.  "An outlet," he admitted.  "I use physical exercise as a way of getting rid of frustration and stress that bothers me.  I focus it out that way instead of bottling it up inside myself until it bubbles, I get ticked at someone and say something stupid.  That's not happening again if I can help it."

"Hey, cool.  I can relate.  I don't use running for that – I run just because I like having the wind through my hair."

"That, and it feels good when you stop, right?"

"Absolutely," she laughed again.  "Y'know, I never knew how you liked the portrait I made last month."

"Are you kidding?  It was great.  I love it.  It reminds me of happy times when I'd had a family."  Whoops.  Slip of the tongue there.

"So what did you get out of Trent for repairing the kiln he damaged?  He kind of spilled the beans the night before his birthday so don't try to deny it."

"I guess with you, I can't.  I did it for cost.  I thought of it as a way of balancing the scales.  I felt I was getting the better end of the deal we had with the portrait so I opted to do the kiln if Trent kept quiet about spoiling the surprise.  I guess I just wanted to keep my end of the bargain with you."

"What do you mean?"

"You wanted the amps repaired as a surprise and I spoiled that surprise.  I felt bad about that."

"Well, that was sweet of you, but you realize I now have to make it up to you," she said, stretching, not letting herself get cold.

"I don't need anything, Jane.  We're cool."

"That's nice.  But too bad, you're getting it.  How about I spend an afternoon working at your garage doing oil jobs?"

"You know how?"

"No," she admitted.

"Then forget it."

"Okay, how about I bake you a cake?"

"You know how?"

"No, not really."

"Then forget it.  But thanks for the offer."

"Okay, here's my last offer.  How about we jog together in the mornings?"

"Deal," he said, smiling.  She grinned back and they set out on a jog.

*************

Fall continued its struggle against winter and on a cold morning, Daria saw a certain someone in the hallway she'd been looking for and walked up to him, tapping his shoulder.  He turned around.  "Do my eyes deceive me?  Is it the lovely Daria?" he asked in his debonair and sophisticated manner.

"Stuff a sock in it, Upchuck," she returned.  "I need your… shudder …assistance."

"Assistance only the Chuck-meister can give?  That's simply… delicious."

Her eyes narrowed into evil looking slits as she replied, "Look, Upchuck.  These boots aren't just made for walking.  Catch my drift?"

"Crystal.  Well, as long as you're here, why don't you tell me what you want so I can ascertain a proper fee schedule."

"What I want is for you to search the school's computer records to find out some information on a certain individual since he keeps his past very quiet.  I know where he lives since his address is in the phone book but other than that I don't know much about him."

"Aaah," Charles said knowingly.  "Been there, done that.  So you're looking for some adequate blackmail material, eh?  No problem.  I'm your man."

"Not blackmail, Upchuck."

"Revenge then?  You're looking to find his schedule in order to lay a fiendish trap.  Been there, done that."

"No revenge.  Look, all I want to know is his birth date."

"Whatever for?"

"For a birthday surprise."

"So you can jump out of a cake for him?"

"Does all your thinking go down this logical trail?"

"Of course.  Yours doesn't?  Anyway, a rival you say?  My dear, you know I don't wish to violate the sacred oath I took upon installing the security software on Ms. Li's systems just to waste an undetectable hack on a rival of mine."

"Terms?"

"Not cash this time, my sweet."

"Sigh.  Terms."

"A minimum of three dates with yours truly."

"One."

"Two."

"Grumble… the things I do for others…  Alright, I'll do it."

"And the name of my rival?"

"It's for Larry."

"Larry Petersen?"

"Yes.  You know him?"

Charles remembered.

The semester was only a couple weeks old.  It was lunchtime.  Charles did what he normally did, which was to circulate and see if any of the lovely ladies were available for a round of dates with the Ruttheimer-stallion (growwwl).  There was one specific day, a Tuesday, where he had casually asked Angie (a cheerleader – growwwl) what she was doing that forthcoming Friday night after the football game.  At the time, his hands had been occupied carrying the usual tray of inedible school food.  

She recoiled in fear and then bolstered by a couple more cheerleaders (they weren't very cheery at the time, come to think of it as they migrated in their packs or pods, he wasn't very sure on this), she attempted to smack him, only to knock his food tray onto the ground, his food-ish stuff splattering near the cheerleaders.  Grossed out, they retreated to safety.  Then some jocks showed up and wanted to beat some "sense" into Charles, which was just an excuse to beat him senseless as he referred to it.  Larry showed up then, nabbed one of the jocks by the elbow which must have been some sort of nerve pinch and also seemed to hurt like hell as the jock fell to his knees and whimpered in agony.  At the time, Larry had asked, "You all right, Chuck?"

That in and of itself wasn't remarkable he recalled.  Others had helped him out in the past, mostly Mack who simply told the other jocks to knock off beating that "sense" into Charles.  What really got to Charles was that Larry came up to him after the jocks retreated and without thinking, offered him part of his lunch.  Charles had only known Larry for a week or so and knew he didn't have money to spare like Charles did, but he was touched by what Larry did.  He showed kindness when no one else would have.  He stood up for him when no one else had.  He showed the markings of friendship.

"Yo, Upchuck?  You in there?" Daria asked, snapping her fingers in front of Charles' eyes, breaking his train of thoughts.

He looked at her and with a firm resolve in his voice said, "I won't do it for you, payment or not."

"Waitaminute.  I thought we had a deal…"

He cut her off.  "I'll do it for myself, for a friend.  I'll crack into the school system later today.  Meet me by the library after school."

Several hours later Charles walked down a hall, making sure no other students or faculty were near.  He was heading for the library and anticipated meeting people then, but not now.  He was working on a cover reason to gain access to the lab when he was surprised by an arm shooting out from behind a door, catching his shirt in a grab and yanking him into the empty classroom.  Empty save for him and Ms. Barch.

"So, Upchuck.  We meet again, eh?"

"Um, Ms. Barch.  I didn't do anything today…" he stammered. 

"You're a male.  You're always up to something."

"Really, Ms. Barch, I don't know a thing about…"

"Can the excuses, Upchuck.  I know what you're up to.  Me and skinny were near enough to hear part of your plan today to get hack into the school's computer."

"Um, I think I'd like to talk to a lawyer?"

"As if I haven't heard that excuse either!  Normally, I'd let you do what you want and let the pieces fall where they may, but dammit, Upchuck, now you're including an innocent young woman in your plans.  I don't know what you said to Daria to overwhelm her normally sensible senses and throw in with the likes of you!  You're probably planning on getting some dirt or blackmail material on someone and then using her to take the fall in case you're found out.  Typical male pattern.  Well, let me tell you, it's not going to work this time.  You're going down, male!"

Charles knew there was only one tactic left.  Since weaseling hadn't worked, it was now time for the truth.  He stopped squirming and stood up straight.  Her hand still gripping his shirt, he looked down and pulled her hand gently off.  He then looked her square in the eye and said, "No blackmail.  No dirt.  Daria asked me to find out Larry's date of birth so she can get him a birthday present."

Ms. Barch, jaw clench and fists ready to wail, strangely enough calmed a bit.  She gave Charles the once over to see if she could detect any lies.  She asked, "Larry Petersen?"

"You know him?" Charles replied.

Ms. Barch remembered.

It was three weeks ago.  The afternoon science class was as expected.  Most of the brain-dead male morons were already asleep when she'd gone over what was going to be on tomorrow's pop quiz.  One male was still awake, however, so she'd need to give him a different test.  That was easy enough to do anyway.  The bell rang and the other male morons quickly awakened, grabbed their things and slothfully left the classroom.

She'd been putting her notebooks away in her briefcase when the one male who had remained awake came up to her and had said how he'd enjoyed the class.  Not so much on the content part of it, since he said he couldn't make heads or tails of some of what she'd said, but it was the other thing.  "I like your voice," he had said.  "It reminds me of my mother's from what I remember."  He said she'd been gone for 10 years and that listening to her was like bringing the past back for him.  He said he wasn't sure why he'd told her that, only that he wanted her to know.  Then he'd left.  Since then she'd had a twinge of motherly instinct towards Larry.  A twinge she couldn't quite get rid of.

  
Even if she wanted to.

"If I find out you're doing anything to harm Larry," she threatened, scowling her intent without finishing it.

"I'd as soon as ask you out than do anything hurtful," Charles replied full force.

Several corridors away, Daria headed towards the library.  As she rounded one corner, Mr. O'Neill caught up with her.  "Ah, um, Daria.  Funny meeting you here," he began.

"In school?  Funny, I thought that was faculty and students usually hung out," she replied, wishing he would go away.

"No, no.  I mean, going down this hallway.  You know, I've always thought going down hallways as an opportunity to go down another corridor of life."

"One corridor is enough for me, thanks," she replied.

"Are you sure?  Wouldn't you like to do something different?  How would you like to participate in an after-school activity?"

"If I've told Jodie once, I've told her 1,402 times the answer is still 'no'."

"Um, how about being a teacher's aide similar to what is done in college?"

"If it's anything that requires me to work, then 'no'.  Mr. O'Neill, why are you so interested in getting me involved with something?  That _is what you're trying to do, isn't it?"_

He stopped as did she.  He then started to cry, saying, "Oh, bwah-hah-hah.  I can't help it, Daria.  I don't want to see you head into a life of crime.  Ms. Barch and I overheard that you and Charles are going to break into the computer lab for nefarious reasons.  I can't allow that to happen, even for you.  If only you'd gotten more involved in school activities, then you wouldn't be swayed into this criminal activity.  Bwah-hah-hah!"

"Um, there, there," Daria almost consoled a dejected Mr. O'Neill who's head was sobbing on her shoulder.  "Um, Mr. O'Neill?  You're getting my jacket wet.  Besides, we're not going to do anything harmful.  I just want to find out the birthday of my friend, Larry."

  
He stopped crying and lifted his head.  "Larry Petersen?" he asked.

"You know him?" Daria replied.

Mr. O'Neill remembered.

It was six weeks ago.  He was concluding his last meeting with Larry in his office, congratulating him on making excellent progress on his self esteem.  Larry grinned at him, extended his hand and had said, "Thank you, Mr. O'Neill.  I couldn't have done it without you.  You've been a good role model."  He had actually thanked him.  And thought he was a good role model.  He always knew being positive with his students would pay off, but this was the first one to mention it.  He knew that everyone liked to hear something flattering about themselves – Mr. O'Neill was no exception to that rule.  And now he'd been thanked.  Genuinely thanked.  It wasn't a huge event, but it moved him.

"If I find out you're doing anything to harm Larry," he threatened, scowling his intent.

"I'd as soon as ask Upchuck out than do anything hurtful," she replied honestly.

Minutes later Ms. Barch unlocked the lab door and both Daria and Charles entered the computer lab.  "Don't be long," Ms. Barch instructed.  "The warden makes her regular sweeps through this area every half hour."

"The warden?" Mr. O'Neill asked as the two students slipped inside.  "Oh, I get it.  Okay, Daria, if Ms. Li does come around, I'll make a whoo, whoo sound like an owl to let you know she's here."

"How about just knocking on the door instead and saying she's here?" said Daria.

"Well, I guess I could do that.  But don't you think it would be more covert to use a bird noise?"

"Whatever pumps your sockets," she agreed, rolling her eyes which he missed.

"C'mon, Daria," Charles said as they went into the room.

Soon enough, Charles had access to the school's computer records, quickly finding Larry's transcript.  "This is odd," Daria said.

"What?" Charles replied.

"Larry's records indicate his parents as alive but custody given to his uncle Max.  It also lists his birthday in 1985, making him 16, not 17 like he said he was."

"I thought he said his parents were dead," Charles pondered.

"I'm not so sure," Daria mused.  "He said they were gone, not dead.  Do you think he could be lying?"

"It's possible," Charles conceded.  "But how do you find out the truth?  You can't just go to him and demand answers.  If it's one thing I've noticed, he's good at avoiding questions."

"Yeah, and then there's Jane to consider."

"Does it really matter?  I mean, Larry's a really nice guy."

Daria nodded.  "He is a nice guy.  But we need to confirm the truth.  It's always important.  Maybe there's just some computer error somewhere.  Let's check that route first."

"And if that doesn't pan out?  Then what?  How would you go about researching his life?" Charles asked.

"Simple," said Daria.  "Like my mother always taught me when she did research – follow the money."

*************

Eventually, one season slid into another one.  The days grew shorter and the temperatures went from the uncomfortable hot of summer to the comfortable of fall back to the uncomfortable of winter.  Daria was glad that Larry and Jane were spending time with each other.  They had even double dated a few times and Larry was a huge step up over Nathan and his oddball nostalgia fetish.  It was just that she couldn't help but feel that Larry was holding something back.  Something important.  She hadn't been able to find out anything yet, but she knew she was close.  Daria was engrossed in this thought while standing at her locker as Jane walked up to her.

"Yo, Daria.  So what's the latest crisis?"

"What do you mean?" Daria replied, snapping back to reality.

"What's the latest crisis?  It's an easy enough question to answer."

"What makes you think there's a crisis?"

Jane counted on her fingers, "You've been avoiding me for the past week.  We haven't even sat together at lunch.  You've avoided tormenting Mr. O'Neill when opportunity arises.  C'mon, you only do this when there's a crisis of some proportion hanging over your head."

Daria selected her books and closed her locker.  "Jane, there's no crisis."

"Then why have you been avoiding me?"

"I haven't been avoiding you."

"Look at me in the eye and say that."

"I haven't been avoiding _you."_

"Ah-hah!  I knew it.  You've been avoiding me."

"I just said I haven't been avoiding you."

"Sure you did.  I just heard you say it.  Only you said it differently.  Therefore you've been avoiding me.  What gives?"

Daria rubbed the bridge of her nose as an ache began in her temple.  "My brain's full from all your circular logic.  Can I go home now?"

"No.  Not until you tell me what the scoop is."

"Jane, there's nothing…"

"I'll start another pregnancy rumor on you."

"You wouldn't."

Jane looked at Daria, her eyes narrowing as an evil grin formed.

"You would," Daria conceded.  "Fine.  There's something about Larry that doesn't add up."

"And…?"

"I don't think he's being entirely truthful with us.  With you."

"I don't believe it.  You're trying to break Larry and me up.  Well, it's not going to work, Morgendorffer.  Not again."

"Jane, I'm not trying to do that," Daria implored.

"Save it, Daria," Jane seethed.  "Some friend you turn out to be."

As Jane stormed off, a dejected Daria stood in the hallway, alone.  She didn't like it.  She'd been there before.  As Jane turned the corner and was gone, Daria turned to go the other way and saw Charles coming towards her.

"Hey, Daria.  Any luck?"

Daria quickly composed her features to an unreadable mask.  "Yeah.  I'm meeting with some of his old teachers next week.  You?"

"Surprisingly yes.  When I was over at the garage the other day I noticed a couple envelopes on the counter going to a Lester and a Jean, both having addresses in Las Vegas."

"Aren't those the same names of his parents?"

"First names, yes.  There were no last names on the envelopes.  I traced the addresses and they live within a block of one another.  I leave for Vegas a week from Saturday.  Can you pick me up at the airport on Sunday?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Something wrong?  Usually you'd make some sort of comment about having to pick me up."

"Not now, Upchuck.  I'm just having a bad day.  Nothing I haven't experienced before.  Unfortunately."

*************

Jane walked into the Pizza King with her sunglasses still on her face.  It wasn't so much a statement that she was cool or any crap like that – instead, she was really, really tired and didn't want the light of the overhead fluorescent lights to do any more damage than the already too-bright day was doing to them.  She looked around and saw Daria waiting for her at their usual booth which was well away from the prying eyes of the "in" crowd.

"Hey," she said as she slid in opposite her friend.

"Hey," Daria got in, a bit of sliding cheese making its way back to the plate in front of her.

Jane helped herself to some of the remaining pizza.  "Sorry I'm late.  Larry's friend, Hector, finally got his citizenship yesterday and held a party last night to celebrate.  Larry invited me and I didn't get home until late.  Y'know, it was kind of strange…"

"The moment you tell me anything intimate, I'm out of here."

"Well, so much for the gratuitous sex in this story, Daria.  Anyway, what I was going to say was Larry seemed really at ease during that party.  He seemed to really relax, a whole lot more than he does at school."

"Can you blame him for being tense at school?"

"Um, I've been thinking about what we talked about the other day.  I'm sorry I blew up at you.  I couldn't help myself from thinking about the days when Tom was my boyfriend, and when you warned me about Larry – well, I thought you were going to do it again."

"I'd never do that.  I don't even want to.  You may not believe this, Jane, but I'm not attracted to him.  He's more like… a cousin or something.  Kind of family, but not the kind that drives you nuts."

"Yeah, I kind of thought that when I saw you two studying in the library the other day.  Instead of having some kind of intense discussion, you two were both sitting at the same table quietly.  Larry was reading something and you were writing notes on whatever you were reading.  I admit I had that boyfriend stealing impression when I was dating Nathan, but I know you'd never do that."

"Again.," Daria supplied honestly.

"Again," Jane said absently, having put her stint with dating Tom long behind her.  "But… I don't know.  I guess now I'm starting to see some inconsistencies myself."

"Such as?" Daria inquired.

Jane struggled with her answer.  Finally, she said, "At the party, it was getting late.  Hector's kids had already gone to bed and the others were simply talking with one another.  I asked if Hector or Anna had ever seen Max and they said they hadn't.  Almost midnight, I then asked Larry if he needed to get back home.  He seemed perplexed and asked why.  So I asked him if he didn't he need to check in on his uncle since he was still very ill.  It was as if he'd forgotten it and when I mentioned it, Larry's demeanor changed subtly.  A few minutes later we were saying our good-byes.  He took me home and then went back home himself."

"Well, sometimes people forget things." Daria said.

"True.  Trent forgets most everything.  But still, Daria, there was something… weird… about Larry forgetting.  I mean, he's pretty sharp.  You talk to him and he'll tell you about observations he's made and so on.  We run in the morning so he picks up on a lot.  And he's pretty determined to make sure people are treated right.  So I asked myself, why would someone like that forget about an ill uncle?  Especially if he's the last person left he's related to?"

Jane looked her friend in the eye.  "And I couldn't come up with an answer to that."

Daria considered the best way to say something, ignored the feeling that she shouldn't and said instead, "Jane… what if I were to tell you that wasn't the last person left he's related to?"

"What're you saying, Daria?"

"We think he has other people close to him alive.  That's what we're trying to verify."

Shocked, Jane said, "You're spying on Larry?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it spying."

"Then what would you call it?"

"Um, intent to spy.  I haven't actually gotten around to doing the spying yet.  You see, there's a difference – when you're spying, you are actively engaged in the act vs. having spied on someone where you have already done the spying…"

"Daria!  You're spying on a friend!  Why?"

Sigh.  "Okay.  Here's the deal.  Larry's a good guy.  He's helped me in a way no one else has, even though I think he did it indirectly and without thinking about it.  As such, I wanted to get him a birthday present.  It was while researching his birthday that I found some discrepancies that we're trying to uncover."

"Discrepancies that you were trying to shield me from?"

"Um… yeah.  I didn't know what kind of person he is.  I didn't want you hurt."

"Awww, you're going soft on me."

"You wish.  If you don't believe me, find me a rock to throw at you."

"But one thing I just don't get – who's this "we" you keep mentioning?  You going 'royal' on me?"

"Not today I'm not.  But as for the 'we' – I'm talking about Upchuck and myself.  We're trying to find any traces of his past so we can find any of his family."

"You and Upchuck?  Eeewwwww."

"I don't know.  He's kind of… feisty."

"Where'd that come from?"

"I don't know.  But if I say it again, smack me."

"You can count on me."

"Thanks."

"Can I get in some practice?" Jane asked.

"I've got to start expanding my circle of friends."

"You wish."

"Just do me a favor, Jane.  Don't let on with Larry.  

"Let on that you're trying to find his family?  I think he'd enjoy knowing it."

"I don't want to get his hopes up in case we come up with nothing," Daria supplied.

"Huh.  Hadn't thought of that.  I'll keep quiet.  Who is it?  An aunt?  Uncle?  No, wait, don't tell me."

Daria was glad that she didn't have to skirt the truth any more than she'd had to with her best friend.  She didn't want to mention that she and Upchuck were trying to find Larry's parents.  It wasn't that she was afraid that she would fail.  Just based on observations of Larry and on comments that he _didn't make, she was more concerned if she was successful.  _

*************

Charles had left early Saturday morning for the four hour flight to Vegas.  He'd managed to locate the address he had copied down from Larry's shop and was a little surprised that both listings were in the same trailer park on the north end of Las Vegas.  The flight had met its share of turbulence once it hit the Rockies but had made it into McCarren International on the south end of Vegas a couple hours ago.  Charles made his way through the concourses to a car rental stand.  An hour after landing he was finally on his way in a Pontiac.

The only good piece of luck he'd had so far was that the air conditioner in the car worked since for a November day it was unusually warm – in the 90's.  An hour later through stop-and-go traffic he made his way into the trailer park.  It was nestled in the middle of nowhere and looked as if it had seen better days.  Better days several decades ago.  There were nearly 100 trailers rusting a slow agonizing death in the middle of the desert.  Charles found the road he wanted and drove down it.  He noticed the next trailer he wanted to go to was on the next road over.

He went up to the first trailer and knocked on the door.  He noticed a fan in the window.  So much for air conditioning.

A few minutes went by with no answer.  He knocked again on the door, this time much louder.

"Awright, already, dammit!  I heard ya the first time!" bellowed a nasal voice that sounded as if its owner had just woken up.

A minute later a very large, portly, at one time blonde (without the use of chemicals) woman opened the door.  Her hair was pushed up on one side confirming to Charles that she had just gotten up even though it was fast approaching noon.  She had some makeup tattooed on her head – the eyebrows, cheeks, lips.  Like it would make all the difference.

"What do you want?" she rasped, lighting up a cigarette.

"Good afternoon.  My name is Charles Ruttheimer…"

"Sounds like a dog," she blew smoke in his face.

Charles ignored the dig and continued on.  "I'd like to talk to you about your son.  Do you mind if I come in?"

She opened the screen door and motioned for him to enter.  He did and was careful where he walked and where he sat.  The inside of her trailer was filled with boxes and bottles and trash bags filled with whatever.  He knew he'd be lucky to escape from that trailer without picking up some disease.

"So how is my little mone… darling?"

"Fine," Charles answered noncommittally. "What I'd…"

"You know why I call him my little darling?"

"Um, no?"

"Because that's what he is.  Especially when he sends me the monthly check.  You're not here to deliver the check are you?"

"No."

"Oh.  Damn.  I could've used another glass of wine."

"So, Mrs. Petersen…"

"Smith."

"Excuse me?"

"It's. Ms. Smith.  I divorced my little darling's father, Lester, years ago.  The rotten bastard."

"What do you…"

"He held me back, you know that?"  Her voice deepened.  "They both did."

"Excuse me?"  Charles was truly baffled.

"He held me back from chasing my dreams.  I could've been a movie star.  But then Lester had to go and get me pregnant the night of our senior prom.  So he did the _honorable thing and married me.  And now what do I have to show for it?  A movie star career cut short.  All because I had to give birth instead of having an abortion."_

"You have a fine son" Charles pointed out.

"A fine son?  Aaahh, he's not my son.  He was an accident.  He never writes.  I even had to threaten him just to get him to send me some money like he does his worthless father!"

*************

Some 1500 miles to the east, Daria walked up to a woman sitting on a bench outside of Highdale High.  "Anna Smith?" she asked.

The woman sitting looked at Daria and stood, extending her hand.  "Hi.  I'm Anna.  You must be Daria."  They shook hands.  "I must say you're a very persuasive person to get me to come here on my day off."

"Thanks for taking the time.  I'm just hoping this helps."

"So what can I do for you?"

"You used to teach History to Larry Petersen.  Do you by chance even remember him?"

"Absolutely.  He's a great kid.  Sharp.  Why?"

"I'm trying to find some background on Larry in order to get some ideas for a birthday present.  Can you tell me what you thought of Larry?"

"Oh, that's easy.  He was an exceptional student.  Smart.  Really smart."

"Really?  What did his friends think?"

"What friends?  He never had any.  They were always intimidated by him.  Calling him an egghead because he could ace tests.  They always said he made it harder for them.  That's probably… never mind."

"Yes?  Please, go on.  "

"Well, it's just a feeling really, but a year and a half ago Larry quit doing well in class.  It's like he just quit trying.  All of a sudden he goes from making A+ papers to doing B-work, from making a 100% on a test to getting an 86%."

"Maybe the material began to be more challenging?" Daria suggested.

"I don't think so.  Of the six tests I gave one semester, he got an 86 on all of them."

"Coincidence?"

"I don't think so.  He missed the same numbered questions – numbers 6, 12, 18 and 24 each time.  He deliberately threw off his score."

"Maybe he was trying to not act like an egghead in order to get some friends."

"If he did, it didn't work.  He still didn't have any friends."

"Well, at least he had Max."

"Max?  You mean, Max Petersen?  Larry's uncle?"

"Um… yeah.  You know him?"

"I'd met him a few times but I take it you don't know."

"Know what?" Daria asked confused.

*************

Charles ended his meeting with Ms. Smith and walked to the next trailer and knocked on the door.  It opened almost immediately.  Standing before him was a six foot tall, portly balding man wearing a stained undershirt beneath his robe.  Stubble punctuated his face to make him look older than his 240 lb. weight implied.

"Who're you and what'daya want?"

"Lester Petersen?"

"Yeah," he replied warily.  "What'daya want?"

"My name…"

"And what did you want at Jean's place?  I saw you over at that fat cow's trailer, you know that?"

"Sir, my name is Charles Ruttheimer…"

"Sounds like a dog.  Haw, haw.  Good one, ain't it?  Dog."

"Sir, can I come in?"

"Why?  I pay my rent on time.  I know my rights.  What do you want?"

"Well, to get out of the heat for one thing."

"Awright, you can come in, but don't touch nothin'.  I know what I got and where it all is."  He opened the unlocked door and ushered Charles into the main living quarters of the trailer, also cooled off by a fan in the window.

"Sir, I…"

"I know I saw you go into Jean's trailer.  I seen it."

"You're right, sir.  I did."

"She's a no good, lying, cheating tramp.  She didn't say anything about me did she?"

"She said you were the reason she was never a movie star.  You and your son, Larry."

"Oh, I take it her _lack of talent never came up did it?"_

"Mr. Petersen, I'm a friend of your son, Larry."

"What's that little twerp want now?  I bet he wants to sell the shop and needs my help.  He should've listened to me earlier.  He must've run it inta the ground by now."

"What's going on, honey?  Who's this?" a very large woman in a bathrobe asked as she walked out into the main area of the trailer.

"Just a friend of my son."

"What does Barry want?"

"I was just asking that before you opened your fat yap!"

"Did he bring the check?  Let's celebrate."

*************

Later that day, Charles unwound at a Motel 6, calling back east.  The phone rang and on the third ring Daria picked it up.  He quickly brought her up to speed with his misadventures in parent-land.

"Really, Daria, I couldn't wait to get out of there," Charles admitted.

Daria sighed.  "The news just doesn't get any better," she admitted and then brought Charles up to speed on her meeting with Larry's former history teacher.

Silence hung on the phone after she finished.  Then, "Some birthday present this turned out to be," Charles said.  "I mean, we've got to do something – Larry can't go on like this.  But I'm at a loss for what to do."

"You know, I've got an idea.  I need to get some legal advice from my mother…"

"You better watch it – she's going to think you're pregnant again."

"Don't even start that rumor again or I'll kick you so hard…"

"Hey, I learned my lesson the last time."

"Anyway, let me call you back once I run a few ideas by her.  They have a fax machine where you're staying?"

"Yep."

"Good.  When's your flight arrive tomorrow?"

"It lands at 1:03pm.  So give or take, I should be in the terminal hopefully no later than a half hour after that."

"Good.  That still gives us an hour to make the deadline.  I'll call you back.  Later."

"Later."

*************

As Saturday fell into Sunday, the snow quit falling and a calm settled on the city.  When dawn broke, Larry met up with Jane and they started out on their jog.

"I love coming out here the morning after a snowstorm," Jane commented, her breath clearly visible in the cold sky.

"I know what you mean.  The crisp air, lack of other pedestrians to get in our way…"

"Yeah, that's okay and all but I really like being the first one to mess up the snow," she said, kicking a piece of hard snow out of her way as they ran down a street.

"You sound like one those aggressive drivers bent on going through a puddle next to someone on a sidewalk – just to get them soaked."

"Is there a problem with that?"

He grinned.  "You've got some serious problems, you know that?"

"And that's just the way you like it."

"Yeah, yeah …WATCH OUT!!"

The day before had been warm before the quick moving arctic blast arrived and did a number on the streets.  The temperature had fallen quickly the night before, but not before some snow had melted on the asphalt.  Once it did melt, it then refroze into black ice.

Larry and Jane ran against traffic on the streets as they normally did.  The car coming towards them tried to brake and slow for the stoplight, but instead slid through the intersection and straight towards them at 40 mph.  Larry, on the outside, pushed Jane back towards the sidewalk where she landed on her back as she heard the car thud into something.

A moment later she saw Larry's form sliding down from the roof of a nearby parked car.

"Larry!" she cried, rising and running towards him.  The car that slid on the ice had finally stopped after it plowed into another parked car.  Larry was on the next car up from that.  The driver got out of his car.

Jane was at Larry's side and managed to catch him before he unceremoniously fell off the front grill of the parked car.  She noticed that he had landed on the roof and slid down to the engine cover and then down to the front of the car.  "Larry?!" she cried again, clutching his hand and focusing in on his face.

It was bloodied, with cuts from his forehead dripping into his eyes and down his face.  His eyes opened but there was already a glaze beginning.

"…oh, Christ…" he started, also beginning to shake as reality came in.

"Don't talk.  Don't move.  Yo!  Buddy!  Call 9-1-1!  Have 'em send an ambulance!  C'mon, Larry, don't freak out on me.  Hold it together."

"…oh, god, Jane.  It hurts…  Jesus, it hurts so bad."

"I know it does, Larry, but you stay focused with me until the ambulance gets here."

"…help me stand up, okay?  Then I'll be all better…" 

Jane looked him over quickly and said, "Larry, you can't stand up.  Your left leg is broken."

"Is it bad?" Larry asked, finding some reality again.

"The bone's sticking out of the skin."

"Too bad Daria's not here.  She might've enjoyed the view.  Gggnnnnnnnn!" he grimaced.

"They're on their way, miss," the driver said, still holding his cell phone to his ear.  "I'm so sorry – I just couldn't stop.  And when I was in the skid, I couldn't even steer anymore.  I'm so sorry.  Oh, God, I'm sorry."

Larry began shaking even harder.  "Jane?  I think I'm going into shock."

Jane took off her light coat and put it on him.  "The ambulance is almost here – I can hear it now.  You're lucky you were hit near a hospital."

Larry looked at Jane's blue eyes and asked, "Would you do something for me?"  She nodded.  "Let Hector know to open the sealed envelope – it contains instructions for what he needs to do."

The ambulance arrived and two men jumped from the van and rushed to Larry before Jane could say anything.

"Okay, son, you still with us?  Good.  What's your name?"

"Larry Petersen," he managed between shakes.

"Shock.  I'm on it.  I'll let the emergency room know we're on our way."

"Okay, Larry, what number can we reach your parents at?"

"No… no parents."

"Guardian then," demanded the paramedic.

"No one.  I'm on my own…" Larry said before closing his eyes.

Jane looked down at her bloodied friend as the paramedics worked on him.  He was alone.  What the hell did that mean?  What about his uncle?  A few seconds later they had Larry strapped in a gurney, slid him into the van and were rushing towards the hospital.  

A police car had arrived as well and one officer was talking to the driver while another was asking Jane if she was okay.

Jane nodded but continued to watch the departing ambulance.

*************

BAM BAM BAM!

Hector Martinez roused himself awake at what he thought was someone pounding on his door.

BAM BAM BAM!

Someone was knocking on his door.  At this hour?  Grumbling, he put on some pants and shoes and went to the front door.  Brrr, it was cold this morning.

"Go away!  The shop no open until tomorrow.  Bring car back then," he yelled through the door, not opening it.

"Mr. Martinez?" the voice asked.  "It's Jane Lane.  Larry's been hurt and needs you to do something!"

Hector opened the door and ushered Jane inside.  As he did so he noticed the police car start backing up out of his driveway.  He brought Jane into the kitchen and started some coffee while Jane told him what had happened this morning.  He didn't feel like drinking any after hearing the news but knew that if he didn't he wouldn't be fully awake for another half hour.  By this time the rest of the house was awake and in the kitchen, listening to Jane's story.

"…and then the police dropped me off here.  What're we going to do?  Larry said he was alone…" she left the rest of her thought unsaid.

Gulping some of the black liquid down, Hector opened a cabinet over the refrigerator and pulled out some paperwork.  Most of it he put right back in but he kept out the big manila envelope which Jane noticed had written on the front and back 'Do Not Open'.  He opened it and pulled out some papers.  After a few minutes of reading he looked up and said, "Manny?  Read this.  Tell me what you think it means."

Manny took the paper and read it a lot quicker than his father.  Finally, he said, "It says you need to call this lawyer, papa.  Then say something to him and the business is yours."

Jane, confused, asked Manny, "May I?"  He handed over the paper.  "Um… should anything happen to me, Hector, the shop is yours… blah, blah, blah …contact the lawyer listed in here to begin the title transfer… blah, blah, blah  …it says Larry was planning on doing this anyway once he graduated from high school but if anything was to happen to him, he wanted you to have it instead of as he puts it, some overzealous government bumpkins take it over and run it in his "care" until he turned 18.  But what does all this mean?"

*************

Upchuck came down the flight ramp and was met by an agitated Daria.  He could tell she was agitated as she remained still as he walked out and asked, "What, no hug?"

"We need to get to the hospital.  Larry's been hurt in a car accident," she said, turning to leave.

Upchuck grabbed his bags and ran after Daria.  "Hurt?  How bad?"

"I'm not sure," she replied, picking up the pace.  "I'd gone over to talk with Jane earlier but she wasn't home.  I then went over to Larry's Fixit shop – but she wasn't there, and neither was he.  Once I got here, I called home to see if any messages had come in and my mother said that Jane had called looking for me and that she was in the hospital with Larry.  Apparently they were running and he'd gotten hit by a car.  She didn't know how bad it was."

"Well, thanks for at least sticking around to give me a lift," he said honestly.

"I figured you'd be concerned like me.  You get the paperwork I faxed yesterday?"

"Got it."

"Any problems with the signatures?"

"Not after I added a few enticements they wanted."

Daria looked at her watch and said, "We don't have much time.  We've got less than two hours to get this done if we want to reach the deadline."

"Your mother finish up with the papers here?" he asked, putting his luggage in the trunk of Daria's car.

"She wasn't really comfortable with it but my dad got her to agree."

A harrowing half-hour later, Upchuck got out of Daria's car, thankful to be alive.

"Oh, it wasn't that bad," Daria said, grabbing his arm and getting him to move his stubborn legs.

"Try telling that to my spleen," he griped, entering the hospital.

Daria and Upchuck went to the information desk and got the room Larry was in.  As they got off the elevator on the third floor, they could hear his voice from a room not far from the nurse's desk.

"…but I don't want it.  I only want you to be okay and come back to the shop," Hector's voice protested from inside the room.

Larry replied calmly.  "It's too late.  I kind of figured that you might need some convincing on this so I went ahead and called and left instructions on Mr. Green's answering machine to run the transfer through.  It's yours no matter what, compadre.  And believe me, I'd much rather you get the shop than anyone else."

"But you and your uncle…" Hector began again.

"I'll manage, Hector.  I can't say the same about you if you don't get a bookkeeper, though.  You stink at doing the books and paying the bills."

"So says the gringo who sweats more than a mule."

"Where'd that come from?" Larry asked, smiling.

Hector hung his head in defeat.  "I don't know.  I ran out of good ideas.  It must be the air here in the hospital."

"What's going on?" Daria asked, walking into the room.  Inside, Larry was lying on a bed, his left leg in traction.  His head was bandaged and he generally looked like crap with dark circles under his eyes.  Other smaller bandages adorned his face, nose, arms and chest.  Hector and Anna Martinez were standing on the right side of the bed and Jane was on the left, sitting at the foot.

"Good to see you, Daria, Chuck," Larry said, smiling at her.

"Good to see you too, Larry," Daria returned.

"You look like crap," Upchuck noted.  "What's wrong?  Cut yourself shaving again?"

"Like you'd know," Larry returned with a grin.

"Jane?" Daria asked.  "How are you doing?"

She looked a little less like crap, but a whole lot better than Larry.  "Okay.  It's just that everything I thought I knew about you," she said to Larry, "has been turned on its head.  I mean, how can you give away the shop?  You don't even own it.  It's your uncle's, isn't it?  What about him?"

"Max Petersen died three years ago, didn't he, Larry?" said Daria.

Larry's eyes softened as he replied, "Yes.  He did.  From cancer.  How'd you know?"

Daria took a seat on the second bed in the room.  "Three weeks ago I got together with Upchuck here to find out some information on you."

"We wanted to get you a birthday present but we didn't know when your birthday was.  So when in doubt, break in to the computer records."

"I was getting to that."

"I didn't want to be here all day until you got to it," Upchuck returned.

"Anyway, we found some discrepancies in your computer record and began researching it to find out what the problem was – if it was a computer error, or if you'd been misleading us.  Anyway, this is what we found.  Your name is Larry Petersen, age 16 although you say you're 17 going on 18 in order to avoid certain labor laws.  It also listed your parents as alive.  Both parents, not just one.

"So we went into research mode.  Near as I can determine, when you were 7, your mother left you and your father.  Tax records suddenly went from joint filing to single filing and I couldn't locate a death certificate."

Charles said, "And the nearest I could figure out was that she took off and headed for Hollywood, to chase her dreams."

Larry remembered.  

He had just turned seven and was coming home from school.  It was his birthday.  His mom was going to make him a cake and his friends would come over later for a party.  His dad had told him to invite plenty of friends.  He'd done so and some had said they'd be able to come.  So he came home full of happy, happy, joy, joy.

He walked into the apartment and called for his mother.  "Mom?!  I'm home!" he'd yelled like he normally did.

The apartment was dark.  He turned the lights on and saw the furniture like he normally did so he went into the kitchen.  He looked in the stove.  No cake.  He looked in the refrigerator.  No cake.  He looked on all the counters.  No cake.

He went to ask his mother where his cake was.  He'd been thinking of it for a few hours now and was hoping to get a piece of it – even a small piece.

But there was no mother.

She was not there.  He looked all around for her.  She was always there when he came home.  She wasn't there.

In his parents bedroom he noticed the closet ajar.  Looking in, he noticed it was mostly empty and he didn't see any of his mother's clothes in there.  He didn't understand.

Several hours later his father came home.  He looked for the boy's mom but couldn't find her either.  He sat on the couch and read a note he'd found.  Then he found a bottle of brown liquid and drank it all down.

There was no cake.  No celebration.  And when his friends showed up later, his father turned them all away.  He didn't understand.  He didn't know what he'd done to drive his mother away.

"I left for school one day and when I came back home that afternoon, my mother had already gone.  Later on my father found a letter and drank himself to sleep that night.  I didn't know what was going on then but I thought something bad had happened so I read the paper for stories and obits for the next few months for anything about my mother.  As you can expect, nothing ever showed up.  I didn't really know how to read either but I could look at every picture that I saw.  Eventually, I just quit looking.  And as I grew older, as far as I was concerned she was dead – she left and never came back."

"I think your father felt the same way," Upchuck continued.  "He began moving you around took a variety of jobs over the next four years or so.  Researching apartment rental records found you stayed in unit after unit for a few months, usually moving in the middle of the night to skip rent.  My guess is that when you were about age 11 your father dropped you off here in Lawndale since that's when I found your first school record.  I don't know if your father stayed here but your address is still the same – the Fix-It Shop owned by Max Petersen, your uncle."

Larry remembered.

His father had long since quit caring how he looked.  Larry stood near the door of his uncle Max's Fix-It shop, peering in the window.  He saw some chairs, magazines, a counter with a cash register on it, the usual stuff he'd seen in gas stations before.  Only he didn't see any pumps.  That was s little curious.  Why'd they stop here to get gas when there weren't any gas pumps?

His dad was having a heated argument with the shop's owner, someone Larry had never seen before.  His father was slightly unstable and wobbly as they stood in the open garage bay and talked.  He could hear some words now and then.  They pointed towards him now and then.  He didn't like the pointing or what he could feel was coming.

Strangely enough, the shop owner pulled his wallet out and pulled some money out, stuffing it in his father's shirt pocket, then said, "Lester, get the hell out of here and if you have any decency, don't come back."  Lester… that was his father's name.

His father turned around and headed back towards his car.  It was an old Datsun that barely ran, sputtering a white-ish/blue cloud of smoke every time he pressed the accelerator.  Larry hurried to the passenger door and pulled the handle.  But it was locked.

"Hey, dad, unlock the door," he'd said back then.

His father looked at him with a glance as he pushed the cigarette lighter in and said, "You're staying here, Larry."

"C'mon, dad, quit joking around.  Unlock the door."

"Where I'm going I don't need a little kid around.  Stay here."

That was it.  He started the car and put it in first gear, pulling out of the dirt driveway and back onto the highway.

Larry watched the car go down the street, expecting him to stop and come back.  He wasn't crying, simply staring.  A tear started forming.  "You… bastard," he seethed between clenched teeth as the shop owner came to stand next to him.  He knew he had wanted to say 'Wait! Don't leave! Stay!' but there was no way he'd do that again.

"Leaving me with Max turned out to be a blessing in disguise when my father abandoned me.  For the next three years Max went from a devout bachelor to being the best father anyone could have.  He taught me everything I know about working on cars.  How that you may not know what the problem is but you can usually figure out what it isn't and then work from there.  How to always question everything and not simply take the easiest answer as the final answer.  This allowed us to get a variety of odd jobs when not too many car jobs were coming our way as Max had only recently opened his garage.

"Heh.  I remember this one time we got a job and I had it solved in five minutes, even before Max had gotten his wrenches out.  I thought at the time Max would've been upset by me outperforming him, but instead he looked at me and said he was proud of me."

Daria picked it up again.  "But then your uncle Max developed lung cancer and died three and a half years ago.  Obituaries confirmed it.  This was just before you entered high school.  Since I never did find a school transcript for you for the 5th grade, I surmise you skipped it.  During all the time you moved around with your father he moved you from school to school as well which helped hide the fact that you simply skipped a year of school."

"But with your uncle gone, how'd you survive on your own?" Upchuck asked.

"I had to," Larry said, as he remembered.

A week after the funeral, his father had turned up at the doorsteps.  "What do you want?" Larry had asked him, refusing to let him in.

His father now drove a Toyota POC (piece-of-crap) and some 280 lb. toots seemed stuck to his arm.  "I heard about Max's death."

"Hi," swilled the toots with glassy eyes and a fragranced breath that could kill insects.  "I'm your new mommy.  Ain't you gonna let us in, Barry?"

"It's Larry, and no.  What do you want, Lester?"

"What do you think, kid?  I'm here to take over.  Once we doctor the books to make it look like it's a gold mine, we sell it and go back to Vegas, right honey?"

"Whatever you say, snookums.  Just so long as you get rid of your kid to your ex.  I want some alone time with you, baby."

"You found my mother?" Larry asked.

"Ahh, the tramp's living in some crappy trailer on the outskirts of Vegas.  Now c'mon, let's get to doctorin' those books, eh?  Sooner we're done, the sooner we're out of this hole."

"No way you're selling this business," Larry protested.

"You can't stop me, kid.  I'm your dad and you do what I say.  And I say we're selling the business."

"…you're right, _Lester.  You are my dad and therefore what you say goes, but have you considered this…"_

"For some reason, my father came back here after the funeral.  He wanted to sell the business and head for Vegas.  I knew even if he sold it for some decent money he'd blow it in Vegas.  I managed to convince him that it would be more profitable to let me run the business and then send him a percentage every quarter.  That way there'd always be a source of income.  My father agreed and drove off again with his toots in tow.  That was the last time I ever saw him."

Upchuck picked up where Daria left off.  "My research shows that shortly after your uncle's death, you hired a couple of mechanics.  One of those turned out to be Hector here.  He's lasted the longest of your crew.  Correct?"

"Yep."

"I stay because Larry a good kid, not because of his cheap pay," Hector said with a wink and a smile to Larry.  "He say his uncle Max was very sick and needed to stay in bed most of the time but we always thought highly of Larry.  Especially after he started helping me study for my citizenship."

"So you were on your own," Daria said, glancing at her watch.  "You hired people and ran a shop.  You went to school and were mostly overlooked according to one of your old teachers.  I looked at your transcripts – you're very bright.  Almost all A's and I think the only reason they're not all A's is that you didn't want to bring any extra attention to yourself.  You always wanted someone else to take the lead so you could slip in the background."

" I don't think you'd really know anything about that."

"I think both of us know a little more about that than you think," Upchuck replied for both of them.

"In any event, about nine months ago you received a letter regarding zoning changes in the county and found yourself having to go to a new school.  You attend Lawndale High for your senior year.  Only this time you do something different – you make friends."

"It was Hector's fault.  He made me do it," Larry said with a half smile.

"Friends who wanted to get you a birthday present.  The same people you said your parents were dead to and that your uncle Max was alive to," Upchuck pointed out.

"Max is alive," Larry replied, thumping his chest.  "In here.  I remember him.  I miss him."

Daria said, "But your parents are alive as well.  Upchuck went and found them in Vegas yesterday.

"I found both your mother and father living near each other in the same trailer park, each shacked up with someone else, and both being equally drunk.  Through conversations with them, I pieced together your life.  And when Daria and I compared notes, we found a lot of your motives that were strange before now had a reasoning behind them."

The room was quiet for a minute before Anna finally said, "All this is history, but what's going to happen to Larry now?"

Upchuck stated, "Well, since he's technically a minor in the eyes of the law, he's going to lose his independence, possibly go to a foster home which can be a crap shoot with what you get – either it's good or it'll be like going to prison.  My guess is that Larry's not going to like it any way you shake a stick at it."

"So this is where Upchuck and I had an idea of what to get Larry for his birthday."  Daria glanced at her watch again and was silent.

Another minute went by.

"Well?" Jane demanded.  "What is it?"

"Almost there.  In five… four… three… two… one…"

"Happy birthday, Larry," Daria said.

"We'd have brought a cake but the nurses confiscated it," lied Upchuck.  "It's 2:37 in the afternoon.  You were born at this time, 17 years ago.  We checked."

"Um, hello?" Jane inserted.  "What's the big surprise you have in store for him?"

"Larry wants something that he can't have for years to come.  He said so himself."  Daria looked at Larry firmly in the eyes.  "Larry wants a family."

"But you said he's already got a family," Jane stated.

Upchuck replied, "No, Larry has biological parents but not a family.  I'm going to make this as blunt as I can.  Your parents suck.  They suck at being parents and they suck at being your family.  They both abandoned you and then used you.  First your father wanted you to send him money and when your mother found out about it, she wanted in on the action."

"Which is where your present comes in," Daria said, pulling out some papers from a pocket inside her jacket.  "It comes in two parts but it is for you to decide if you want it.  First, here are some forms that divorce you from your parents.  You need to sign them and we'll get my mom to finish up the legal work on it."

Larry took the papers from Daria.  Jane noticed that the papers were shaking Larry's nervous hands.  He said, "How'd you get my moth… Jean and Lester to sign these?"

"A case of bourbon did the trick for each.  And worth every damn cent," said Upchuck.

"But if I sign these, then I'll definitely go to foster care."

"True," replied Daria.  "But only if we didn't have a second form for you to sign.  Here."  She handed him another set of papers.

Larry read them quickly, glancing over the legal mumbo-jumbo and instead went straight to the content.  His hands were still shaking as he finished reading and looked up at Daria and Upchuck who were standing next to his bed with the others.

"This is an adoption form with my name filled out," he said.

"Correct.  You now get to decide if you want a family of your choosing, or one forced on you by the courts.  My mother will help with these forms as well if you decide to fill them out."

"But… who?  Who's going to adopt me?  That part's not filled out."

"I'm game.  I'd do it."

Larry looked at Upchuck and asked, "You mean it?"

"Yes."

Daria commented, "Upchuck is now legally an adult of 18 years.  By adopting you, he can keep you from going to foster care – at least for the next year until you gain legal status of his own."

"Hey, don't rule me out of this," Jane interjected.

"Jane," Daria observed, "we don't live in the backwoods of Tennessee.  Think about it.  You'd be dating your brother."

"Eeeewwwww," said a voice near the author's ear.

"Where'd that come from?" Jane asked.

"I'm not sure.  But it seems to follow me everywhere I go anymore," complained Daria.

"Why, Chuck?" Larry asked, his tone desperately wanting an answer.

"Because I can.  And because… I want to."

"Jeez, Upchuck – I didn't know you had it in you," Jane smiled.

"Ahhh, don't read too much into it.  I just need someone to bully around into cleaning the house every weekend so I won't have to do it anymore."

"Always with the ulterior motives, eh?" Larry said with a grin.

"Damn straight."

Daria said, "Larry?  You do have more options.  I turn 18 next month and am willing to adopt a brother."

"And me," Hector said.  "I would be happy to make you my boy since you're my boy almost now."

"I've also tentatively talked with Ms. Barch and Mr. O'Neill.  They're willing to look after you as well.  You have friends and can make your own family as you choose."

"I… I don't know what to say," he stammered.

"Whatever you decide will be fine with us," replied Anna.  "We all know you have heart in right place."

"You don't have to decide now, but give it some thought.  There are a lot of people who _want you in their lives.  None of us feel burdened by it either.  And by choosing one, it doesn't mean you'll lose any of the others.  But it is your decision."_

*************

Several hours after visiting hours ended and the social services staff had made their rounds touting their fine list of foster homes, one of which they'd place him in since he had no other family around, Larry pulled a folder out of the stand next to his bed.  He read the documents again and thought of his parents, his uncle Max, his friends, his feisty (where the heck did that come from?) girlfriend – then put a stop to the girlfriend images in case it caused other reactions in his body.  

He knew he'd never be entirely free of the influence his parents had put on him.  But if he didn't try, he knew he'd slump into depression or worse.  That was a road he didn't want to go down.

Helen would be available to oversee the documents whenever he wanted to sign them, or if he ever did.

He thought long and hard about the idea of giving up his parents.  He thought back to an event he remembered at the mall two years ago.  A little 3-year old boy was being walloped by his mother because he was whining.  A spank on his tush would have been all that Larry would have done to get the boy's attention and hopefully get him to stop whining or crying.  But this boy's mother just used her hand and smacked him up one side of his head to the other.  He might've started this by whining but he couldn't do anything to stop it.  And she seemed out of control.

Another passerby, a hairy man with a beard, had stepped into the matter and started walking towards her, yelling for her to stop it and if she didn't, he was prepared to arrest her since he was an off-duty police officer.  Larry didn't know if that man's story was true (he suspected it wasn't) but she had stopped swatting her son and promptly went back into the mall, presumably to get away from the man.

She didn't bring her son with her, but as soon as the boy realized he wasn't being hit anymore, his nose still running and tears in his eyes, he went after her and tried to hold her hand.

Larry stood and thought about that for over ten minutes.  The little boy didn't know anything else but that abusive mother.  He felt sad for the little boy.  His parents weren't abusive to him – mainly because they weren't around.  But the effect was similar.  Scars would be left and he was thinking he needed them because that was all he had.

Now, he knew different.  That was the family he was born with.

Now it was time to make a new family.  One he chose.  One he wanted.  And one who wanted him back.

He filled out the forms.  He never wanted anything to do with his biological parents again.

He then pulled the phone on the stand nearer and dialed a number.  A voice picked up.

"Hi," Larry started.  "I was just going over the forms.  Um… did you mean it earlier?  Would you really be my family?"

"Yes," the voice replied.

"Come by as soon as you can tomorrow.  And bring Mrs. Morgendorffer with you so we can get this legalized as fast as possible.  I'm looking forward to spending some time with my …family."

He hung up the phone and laid back, closing his eyes.  As Larry fell asleep, he thought of his next run in the park.  He could see himself running faster and faster and seeing the park bench come into view.

Faster and faster he approached it – only to pass it by.  It wasn't important anymore.

"Family," he muttered as he fell asleep.

**The End.**

BEGIN VIDEO 

Location: Lawndale High cafeteria

Time: afternoon, May 2002

Jane:                                       I can't believe you read it last night.

Daria:                                      Believe.

Jane:                                       How repugnant was it?  Wait.  Don't tell me, as your friend I don't want to know.  No, tell me.

Daria:                                      It was…

Jane:                                       Wait!  Don't tell me.  I can't handle it.  Some things are better left unsaid.

Daria didn't say anything.  She sat at the table as Jane spoke.

Jane:                                       So are you coming over later?  We've got a moral imperative to crucify the latest 007 video…

Daria:                                      That's it!  Why didn't I think of it sooner?  Jane, gotta go.  Pizza later?

Jane:                                       Uh, sure.  Call me.

Daria:                                      Later.

Daria takes off and is out of the lunchroom in moments.  View angle shifts to a hallway.  Upchuck is seen at his locker, sitting on the floor, reading a book.  Daria comes up to him and nudges his leg with her foot.  Upchuck gets up.

Upchuck:                               My ship has finally come in.  What was it that turned you towards me, my Morgendorffer beauty?

Daria:                                      Can it, Upchuck.  I just wanted to ask you some questions.

Upchuck:                               Yes.  I'm free this Friday night.  In fact, any night you want me, I'm free.

Daria:                                      You're not making this easy, are you?  Fine.  I'll cut to the chase.

Upchuck:                               Feisty, aren't we?

Daria:                                      I read your story you handed in for the time capsule.

Upchuck:                               … why?  I specifically told you that you didn't have to.  I'd already taken care of the formatting, spell check, everything.

Daria:                                      It was the title.  It wasn't nearly as repulsive as I thought it'd be so I wanted to see why not.

Upchuck sank back to the ground and put his hands over his face.  Daria sank down next to him, her back to the locker.

Daria:                                      Just tell me why you did it.

Upchuck:                               Did what?

Daria:                                      Wrote about someone else.

Upchuck:                               It was the assignment.

Daria:                                      I was there, remember?  It wasn't part of the parameters.  That was subjective on your part.  You wrote about someone other than you.  That was my first clue.  But can you at least tell me why you put certain real-life references in there?

Upchuck:                               Can you be a little more specific?

Daria:                                      My life.  You picked up that I wasn't happy at home – how?

Upchuck:                               Who has a happy life at home these days?  Name one and I'll show you a liar.  We all pretty much have the same problems as well.  Some differences but more often than not, they all boil down to the same thing.

Daria:                                      Point.  Then mine and Jane's life.  Last week.  Discussing the horrors of Evil Dead 3 we'd watched the night before.

Upchuck:                               You were within earshot at the time.  I needed some movement on the character so I put that in.

Daria:                                      There was more to it, don't deny it.

Upchuck:                               Really, my precious little ego-inflator, if I'd wanted…

Daria:                                      You put in references to my family.  You put in references to Jane's family.  These references were more accurate than not.  You put in references to your character Larry's family.  But the only reference you put in for your own family was near the end when you mentioned something about not wanting your dad to contest an adoption.  A writer usually writes from observations or from experience.  Your descriptions of mine and Jane's life were also pretty detailed.  Observation.  Even Larry had a detailed life.  Even Mr. O'Neill and Ms. Barch had more of a life than your family.  Why?

Upchuck ran his hands through his hair.  Once, twice, a third time.  He looked at his watch.  He wasn't smiling.

Daria:                                      Dammit, why?

Upchuck:                               …because I saw something in your life that I liked.

Daria:                                      A family?

Upchuck:                               How did you guess?

Daria:                                      You all but spelled it out in the story, Charles.  

Upchuck:                               Truth, then?

Daria:                                      No punches held, no quarter given.

Upchuck:                               Good enough.  Think about it.  A family is only part of it.  I want its base component.

Daria:                                      …you want acceptance.

Upchuck:                               You're very perceptive.

Daria:                                      It's the glasses.  But you already have acceptance.  You already have a family.

Upchuck:                               Tell that to my ever supportive parental units.

Daria:                                      Not there much, eh?

Upchuck:                               You mean, show up for the humdrum of homelife when you can stay at work and go to the club later?  Or stay home for the unique boredom domesticity gives you vs. going someplace where you can ignore the fact you have children?  On my last birthday my father called me from a cruise ship and asked me if the lawn had been mowed.  That was it.  Hell, even Jane has a better life with her parents gone more than I do with mine here.

Daria:                                      Charles, we all have…

Upchuck:                               Did I ever tell you that I have a younger brother?  

Daria:                                      You have a brother?

Upchuck:                               A year younger than me.  His name was Larry.  He was stillborn.  I never got to know him.  I wish I could've gotten the chance.  As is, I'm an only child of noninvolved parents who seem to have time for each other when it's convenient but not for me.  Not now, not ever.

Daria:                                      How many friends do you have, Charles?

Upchuck:                               Do imaginary friends count?

Daria:                                      Only if they carry plastic and can pick up the tab.

Upchuck:                               Well, in that case… none.

Daria:                                      We can change that,  you know.

Upchuck:                               How so?

Daria extends her right hand.

Daria:                                      I'll be your friend.  You can never have enough.

Upchuck:                               But what about you and Jane?

Daria:                                      Like I said, you can never have enough friends.

Upchuck:                               Why?

Daria:                                      Why what?

Upchuck:                               Why would you suddenly want to be friends with me?  You've had the last few years to do it and you haven't gone out of your way to do it any of those times.

Daria:                                      Your story was very specific in certain areas.  The way you described my lack of a relationship with my father and how you wrote it so that I got to know him again…

Upchuck:                               I was writing about my own wishes for my own father on that, you know.

Daria:                                      I gathered.  But what I saw from it was… kindred spirits.  We're more alike than you know.

Upchuck spent a moment digesting this.  He looked at Daria who looked at him, her hand still extended.

Upchuck:                               Well in that case… friends.

They shook on it.

Daria:                                      You know, I'm curious.  Whose family did he join?  

Upchuck:                               Who?

Daria:                                      Your character, Larry.  Yours?

Upchuck:                               Are you kidding?  I'm looking to leave it as soon as I can – why would I want to subject someone else to the same thing I'm going through.  Yours was a more favorable alternative.  But at this point I'm not saying.  I'll leave it up to the reader to decide what they want.  

Daria:                                      You suck.

Upchuck:                               I do, don't I?  Um… I hate to bring it up, but being friends – how does that change things between us?

Daria:                                      Well, you realize, of course, that since I'm now your friend you can't hit on me or use any pickup lines around me or on my friends or say the word feisty in my presence.  Violation of these rules will result in my kicking you very hard where the sun don't shine.

Upchuck:                               Hmmm.  I take it that it's too late to back out of this friendship thing?

Daria:                                      You got that right.

Upchuck:                               Then I'll have to work on a new catchphrase.  How about, 'Dyn-o-mite, Daria'!

Daria:                                      I'm going to kick you.

Upchuck:                               'What choo talkin' about, Daria'?

Daria:                                      You will pay.

Upchuck:                               'Kiss my grits'!

Daria smiled and lightly punched him on the shoulder.

Charles returned the smile but not the punch.

Daria:                                      One question.  Can you give me any idea why this story sounds so familiar to me?

Upchuck:                               You mean the character?

Daria:                                      No.  I mean, the lead character's history.  Care to explain why it sounds so familiar?

Upchuck:                               My guess is that you're thinking of Jane's story.  You weren't the first one Mr. O'Neill came to for hardcopy story transfers to an electronic medium.

Daria:                                      And you took a little liberty with her character?

Upchuck:                               I prefer calling it blatantly stealing, thank you very much.

END VIDEO 

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                                       Discussion.  What conclusions can you draw from this story?  Larissa, you certainly seem to have an opinion on him.

Larissa:                                  It was fairly obvious with the story by itself.  The protagonist wanted a family.  He had a family that he was stuck with who were a bunch of losers and he wanted to get away from them and get a new and hopefully better family.  His new family came from his friends.  Or, friendship is family.  That was the underlying theme throughout the entire story.

Barry:                                     Snooze alert.

Nick:                                       Your input then, Barry.

Barry:                                     I could barely keep my eyes open as I read it.  So he had a couple of bad parents.  At least he had parents vs. others who have never had any.  Or at least his parents left him alone and didn't beat the crap out of him.

Diana:                                     Each of those is a different kind of pain, but it is still a related pain to the kind the character felt.

Ben:                                        It was still a snoozer.  Where was the action?

Nicole:                                    Who says a story needs to have action to be a good story?

Rich:                                       Well, if it doesn't have any, then it might as well be a chick-flick story.

Jane:                                       Better a chick-flick than a Stallone.

Dan:                                        C'mon, that guy was the best action star of his time.

Naomi:                                    Sure he was.  When pigs fly.

Bob:                                        I heard some guy was working on splicing that gene into a pig.

Kara:                                       You would.

Nick:                                       People!  We're getting off track here.  The story is the discussion, not Bob's obsession with flying pigs.

Bob:                                        Hey!

Mike:                                      No matter what you say, I thought the guy was a wimp.

Nick:                                       Defend your position, Mike.

Mike:                                      The author was correct in his statement that every kid has problems at home.  Not all problems are the same.  Again, true.  But you can't just ignore them and hope they go away.  You deal with them and work through it.  This character wanted a new family instead of working with his current family.  That was a cop-out.  He gave up.  He didn't defend his family.

Larissa:                                  He didn't have a family to defend.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Be that what it may, we could go on and on about this and how some people quit relating to family and how others work at maintaining relationships.  We're running short on time.  Barry, Larissa, where is Charles now and overview on his artifact, please.

Larissa:                                  Charles Ruttheimer went to Columbia University and dropped out just shy of graduation.  I think this put a strain on his relationship with his father and mother.  Tax records indicate he held a variety of jobs on the west coast from working on a fishing boat in Alaska to a bar in Sacramento.  This lasted for six years until he settled in Lincoln, Nebraska.  In 2013, an article showed in their daily paper about his reopening of a farm sector for private use.  This wasn't real news since conglomerates routinely gave sections of land back to farmers to work.  What made this newsworthy was that he sued and won a huge stretch of land from a corp.  I'm not sure I understood how he did it – it had something to do with Gummi worms and other sugar products.  Anyway, he got it and then gave all the land away except for a small bit which he kept for himself to use.  A couple years later he married.  Another article, this time giving family members in attendance.  His family wasn't listed so I don't think any of them showed up.  His mother died in 2019.  His father remarried a woman 32 years his junior in 2021.  He left control of the company to the new wife when he died in 2024.

Bob:                                        What a bastard.  He screwed his own kid out of his inheritance.

Larissa:                                  And that's good enough reason to not associate with a blood family if you ask me.  Anyway, Charles has lived the last 30 years in Nebraska.  He's served on a couple city councils, fought for farmer rights especially when the sugar purge hit.  I called him up for an interview and got his son instead.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Does that mean… he died?

Larissa:                                  No.  He and his wife are on an Alaskan vacation and won't be back for another few weeks.

Nick:                                       Barry?  What did he leave behind?

Barry:                                     He left behind some plastic egg shells, a small, frayed wicker tube and a black stick.

Nick:                                       You didn't research it, did you?

Barry:                                     Sure I did.  Um… no.

Nick:                                       Bob?  What are they?

Bob:                                        Magician props.  A wand, the shell game trick, and I forget what the last one is called.  It's to catch your finger and hold it in place.

Nick:                                       Thank you, Bob.  Good work, Larissa.  Barry, you and I need to talk later.  Who's up next?  John, Elizabeth – you two volunteering?  Good enough.

_NEXT:                                   Joey's Story: My Date (and NOT Jeffy or Jamie's) with Quinn _

Contact me if you want:

jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2001 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).  

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed.  Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you.  A coincidence!   To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real.  Or could it?  I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	8. Jeffy's Story My Date With Quinn

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!**

**My Date (And Not Joey or Jamie's) With Quinn!**

**By Jeff Bonder**

**(Transcribed by Steve Brown)**

It had all the trimmings of being just another average day.  Then the bell rang and school was out for the weekend.  I gathered my things and put them in storage while other, younger – heck, they were just kids – students flew out the school doors.  As I closed my locker door, two students swaggered up towards me.

"Hey, Jeffy," the first one said, pulling his hands out of his pockets.

"James," I replied with a nod.

"Hey," said the second one, looking around for someone.

"Joseph," I responded.  Ah.  There was who Joey was looking for.  A cute redhead.  Her name, Quinn Morgendorffer.  Two guesses as to what they wanted to do to me to impress her.

"Now!" yelled Jamie as he took a swipe at my head.  Joey threw a punch towards my stomach.  Same old boys.  Same old tactic.  You would have thought by now they would have learned.

I ducked beneath Jamie's punch and caught Joey's fist with my two hands, jarring his shoulder and pulling his arm up so he was off balance when his now re-directed punch landed into Jamie.  Since he was already off-balance, his momentum carried through and the two of them went down in one heap.

They struggled to get up quickly and have another go at me, so I karate-chopped each on the base of the neck.  Down they went with not-so-subtle moans.

"Really, you two," I said.  "You've got to get some new moves.  Pardon me."  I walked over them and headed towards the cute as a button Quinn.  "You know," I started, "they only do that when you're around."

"I know," she confessed.  "That's why I try to keep them away from me.  I didn't really want to see you get hurt.  We cute people have to stick together.  Even if you are cuter than me."

"Me?  Cute?  I'm not cute.  Handsome, but not cute."

She giggled at that.

"Um," she started, "would you like to go out with me tonight, Jeffy?"

"Now, Quinn," I admonished.  "Call me old fashioned, but I think it should be the man asking the woman out and not the other way around."

"Sorry," she shrugged her shoulders.

"Now that we have that out of the way, would you like to go out with me tonight, Quinn?" I asked mainly to annoy the two waking, sore lunkheads behind me.

"Sure.  My treat?"

"How can I say no to women's lib?  How about Chez Pierre?  I hear they have French food like French fries and French bread."

"Sure," she glowed.

"I'll pick you up at 7:00 tonight."

"I'll wait for you," she said, her breathing a little fast.  "All night if I have to, Jeffy."

I knew she would.  After all, how could she resist his manly charm and excellent physique?  You know, sometimes it was hard just being me.

*************

I revved the motor in my car to get the oil circulating and then tore out of the parking lot, taking the speed bumps at an even speed of 55 mph.  I noticed the traffic light.  It just turned green.  That is, green for the other direction.  A bright red light was steadily showing my direction.  Normally I would have waited at the light – but today was no ordinary day.  I was a man with a mission.  I needed to get home.

All this went through my head as the cars in the other lane began to lurch forward with their green light.  I threw the car into high gear and squealed the tires as I took the corner, as it turns out in front of some drivers who didn't see it my way that I was on a mission.

"Gah-dammit!  You lousy punks need to learn how to drive!" shouted one irate driver, his fist shaking out the window.  Really, he had to learn to take it easy or he'd be a prime candidate for a heart attack.  "Gah-dammit!  Now look…" his voice faded into the distance as I wove expertly through traffic.  I took another glance at him.  He looked familiar.  Ah, I had it.  He was the guy with the hotdogs at school.  Jake Consulting or something.

I lost track of him as I cruised through more lights (I forget what color they were) and took a curve at a good speed to lose the flashing pursuit.  I knew I shouldn't have gone this fast, but it wasn't that often that I got to go out on a date.  And this time I was going out on a date with Quinn Morgendorffer herself.  Inevitable as it was.

A block from home I slowed down to an agonizingly slow 30 mph.  I pulled into my house's garage and closed the door before any of the flashing pursuit could see my car or run the plate.  I quickly noticed that the other space in the garage was empty – meaning that my parents weren't home.  I walked into the kitchen and noticed the board on the refrigerator.  A message was on it.

_Kids:_

_Mom and I are going out to yoga class and then dinner.  Call for pizza for yourselves.  Cash is in the drawer.  NO PARTIES!  Love and kisses._

_Dad_

I smiled at the note.  I was glad my parents weren't home now as they usually had a lot of questions they wanted answered.  Where had I been?  Where was I going?  Who was I going out with?  Was I smoking pot and all that.  I was glad they were concerned about my welfare and all but how could I tell them that I'd been recruited two years ago to join a spy network and was now one of their top agents?  How did I let them know that when I usually went out for non-football events I was usually armed to the teeth and ready for battle?  How did I let them know that the protection talk they gave me a few weeks ago was already old news?  God, I hoped they never found out about that.  They would freak.  So would Sandi.

Glancing at my watch, I noticed I had _just enough time for my usual long shower.  I didn't bother with my homework as I'd already done it in class today.  I turned on the handles and jumped in when it got good and steamy.  I had begun lathering my well-muscled body when the darned watch began beeping._

"On," I said to the micro-microphone in the watch.  This wouldn't be good.  It never was when HQ interrupted me when I took a shower.  I was pretty sure they had a temperature control switch on this watch and when it registered a hot and steamy environment, they knew when to call.  Bastards.

Sure enough, the digital readout disappeared and was replaced by a real-time video shot of one George Smith.  A.k.a., my boss.  

"Sorry to interrupt you, Bond, but we need you.  You weren't doing anything hot and steamy were you?"

Bastard.  "Just taking my customary shower, George.  You know that.  You always call me when I'm in here."

"Yes, well, if these darn temp readouts…" he started, then stopped.  "Er, something's come up."

"I'm busy," I replied, rinsing the shampoo out of my hair.

"But you're the best agent we've got," he implored.

"Still busy."

"I'm afraid I have to pull rank on you, 007.  I need you to take this assignment this evening."

"Can't one of the other agents to do this?" I asked, rotating the dial on the shower massage.  "I've got a date tonight.  A hot date, old chap."

"Hot and steamy?" he suddenly asked.

"Could be," I led him on.

"Er, I'm afraid not, Jeff.  You see, we've already sent in other agents – 008 and 009.  But they've gone missing.  You're it, 007.  Not only are you the best, but you're also the last one available in the area."

"But it's Quinn Morgendorffer we're talking about here, man."

"Quinn?" George's eyes went wide.  "Really?  Red-head, right?  Um, I mean, we still need your services."

"The fate of the free world hangs in the balance and all that, I presume.  Okay, what is it?"

"It's Dr. Evil No.  He's escaped from maximum security again and this time says he's going to show the world who're they're messing with."

"You'd think for an evil genius he'd learn not to end sentences with a preposition," I muttered.

"What was that, 007?"

"Nothing, nothing.  Look, just give him a million dollars and tell him to call back when it runs out.  We'll catch him.  Whoops, dropped the soap."

"Oh, god, don't ever pick up the soap again, agent 007.  Anyway, we at HQ suspect he's in your area…"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you suspect he's in my area?"

"Um, our intelligence boys are really sharp with this sort of thing," he weasled.

"Whoops, there goes the soap again, George."

"All right, 007.  He sent us an e-mail and we tracked it back to your hometown.  We sent in 008 and 009 on a recon and they never came back."

"Now we're getting somewhere," I said.  "So what's the rest of the scoop on this whack-job?"

"We believe all the missing plutonium from Russia has been smuggled into the US…"

"He gloated about it in his e-mail, didn't he?"

"Er… right.  Anyway, we think he's up to his old tricks."

"He does tricks?  You mean he's a hooker?"

"No!" George replied hotly.

"Just messing with you, George.  Give me the gist of it.  I'm almost out of hot water."

And he did.  There wasn't much to tell other than some offshoot branch of his gang sprung his lousy ass out of prison and it was going to ruin my evening.

Or perhaps, maybe not.  

*************

After a quick press of my tux, it was time to go.  I went downstairs.  My parents still weren't home (always a good sign when I didn't want to talk with them and have a repeat of the "protection" speech) and my sister was in the back yard with the dog.  I grabbed the keys to my corvette and hit the road.  

Soon enough I was at the Morgendorffer residence.  Quinn's cousin or something opened the door, noticed my wink and nearly passed out with desire.  Holding onto the doorknob for support, she called over her shoulder for Quinn.  I smiled at the kindness and she swooned again.

Quinn walked down the stairs, nearly tripping when she saw me waiting for her.

She regained her composure and came down the rest of the way without incident.  I crooked my arm and she took a hold of it, sighing as her arm slid around mine.  I had that kind of effect on women apparently.  Except for Ms. Barch who I think didn't really like men if you know what I mean.

"My, Jeffy," Quinn said as I escorted her to the car, opening her door.  "You sure clean up nicely.  Look how well you're dressed compared to those other two lunkheads you hang around with at school."

"Please, you're embarrassing me," I replied candidly.  "By the way, you look pretty hot yourself."

"Thanks," she giggled.  "Um, Jeffy, I know we haven't even gone on our date and all yet but do you think I could be one of your Bond girls?"

I looked at her cute redheaded face and said, "I'll think about it."

"Oooohhh, you're the best I can ever hope for, Jeffy."

True, too true.  But it was a price I was willing to pay.

*************

The drive to the restaurant was uneventful for which I was grateful.  The last time I went out on a date I had to shoot the tires out of some quarterback nut-job in a jeep who thought it was funny to swerve all over the road while downing a brew.  Normally I wouldn't have thought twice about doing that (it was my idea of public service after all), but my date kept crying all night as if I'd traumatized her with the shooting.  Hmmm, now that I think about it, I haven't seen her back at school since then.

In any event, we pulled into Chez Pierre's parking lot.  I had to park up close since the back of the lot was packed tight with big rigs and other large trucks. 

"Jeffy?" Quinn asked as I opened the restaurant doors for her.  "Isn't this place a little more deserted than it normally is on a Friday evening?"

I looked around.  There wasn't anyone else in the place at all.  It did look a little light, even for the fashionably-late.  The maitre d' came out of the kitchen, a scowl on his face.

"I say, old chap, the place looks awfully empty.  You are open, are you not?" I asked of the new maitre d'.  He looked a little familiar but I couldn't quite place him.  Normally I was very good with faces, but tonight only one mattered and she was on my arm.

"NO!" shouted the maitre 'd.  Then, "Um, I mean, yes it is, sir.  Open, that is."

"Oh, okay, cool.  Anyway, I have a reservation under Bond… Jeffy Bond."

"Oooooohhhhh, I love it when you say it like that, Jeffy," Quinn smarmed.

What can I say?  It's a knack.

"NO!  Um, I mean, yes, here it is, Mr. Bond.  We're a little short staffed tonight so I will be your host as well as your waiter.  Would you care for the wine list?"

"No, just bring us a bottle of your freshest wine.  And hurry up about it."

"NO!  Um, I mean, I'll need to see your ID's first."

"Fine," I said.  No sense getting into a fight over underage drinking.  Not when I was supposed to be on the side of the good guys.  "Do you have Pepsi here?"

"NO!"

A moment went by before I realized he wasn't going to say anything else.

"Oh, okay," Quinn said.  "I'll just have a diet whatever then.  With star-shaped ice."

"NO!  Um, I mean, certainly Madame.  Would Monsieur and Madame care to order?"

"What are the specials?"

"NO specials!"

"Oh, okay," Quinn said.  "I'll have a salad."

"NO!  Um, I mean, what kind of dressing?"

"Ces…" she started, watching him.

"N…"  he started, watching her.

"Ita…"

"N…"

"Ran…"

"N…"

"French?" she finished.

"Oui, Madame.  And for Monsieur?"

"Burger and fries," I said.

"NO!  I mean… NO!  Look, this is an upscale French restaurant.  And you want a burger?"

"Sure.  With French fries."

"NO!"

Another awkward silence went by before I realized he wasn't going to say anything else.

"Then what do you suggest?" I asked.

"NO!  I mean, I think you should forget with the burger and fries and go directly for desert since that is what the decadent evil, soon to be extinct French, I mean, the glorious French people make so well."

"Well, now you're talking.  How about an ice cream sundae?"

"NO!"

"App…" I started.

"N…" he started.

"Cherr…"

"N…"

"Key Lim…"

"N…"

"You know, maybe I'll just order it when we're done with the meal first," I said, closing the menu.

"NO!  I mean, only the refined order desert at the beginning of the meal, right Madame?"

"Um, I guess so.  So what do you recommend?  The fruit tray?"

"NO!  Absolutely not.  It is awful.  Don't waste your pretty little appetite on it.  May I recommend a Baked Alaska?"

"Don't you think that will be a little heavy?"

"NO!  It will be a good size.  Possibly the size of a mushroom.  Heh-heh-heh."

"How's the cheese-less cheesecake look tonight?"

"NO!  I mean, we're out."

"You sure I can't have some ice cream?"

"NO!  I mean, we're out of that as well."

I sighed.  This wasn't my night.  "I guess the Baked Alaska will do then."

"N—Very good, sir.  I'll have the staff prepare it forthwith."  He snapped the menus out of our hands and headed for the kitchen.

Quinn looked at me with a distinct fondness in her eyes.  When she realized I was staring back, she said, "Oh, um, excuse me, Jeffy.  I need to go to the ladies room."

She got up and went to the other side of the restaurant.  At about that time, another couple came in through the front doors which jingled as the bells above the door clanged.  The head waiter, that guy with the horrible accent, stormed out of the kitchen on an intercept course.  Great.  That gave me time to get some work in.

Normally I hated to work when I was out on a date, but my duties to my country made it clear that it was something I needed to do.  Besides, I'd heard that Quinn didn't put out on the first date anyway.  I got up from the table and headed for the kitchen, squeezing past a barely open door and stealing a quick look.

The first thing I noticed was that there was no way in Hell the Department Of Health ever showed up at this place.  After all, it wouldn't have been too hard to notice the bound, lifeless bodies of agents 008 and 009 near the freezer which I'm pretty sure was a health code violation.  Same with the rest of the regular restaurant staff that were also bound and not moving a bit since they were unequivocally in need of a post-mortem examination.

There was movement in the kitchen.  I saw six men and women wearing Dr. Evil No henchmen shirts worked the lines where the cooks usually hung out.  I loved new-age marketing and dot-com registering, especially when it came to t-shirts as the bad guy made it easy for you to know he (or she) was a bad guy when they wore their company's logo.  Not that the good guys were above this – quite the opposite – they would if they could.  But due to some budget crunches by some cheap ass bastards in the Senate…

Uh-oh.  This didn't look good.  They were making the salads way too large.  If I ate one of those, I wouldn't even be hungry for my entrée, let alone desert.  Crouching along, I finally saw was I was looking for – the sure-tell sign of a yellow nuclear box, its box lid up and the box itself empty.  The plutonium had gone missing.  But where was it?

"'Ey!  'Ou are you?  An' whar's your buzzboy uniform?" someone asked me, tapping my shoulder.

I looked up.  "My uniform is with my fake French accent, you jerk.  Now keep quiet, I'm busy."  I just had to find that plutonium.  The fate of the free world, as well as the rest of my date with Quinn resided on it.

"'Ou are you, eh?" asked the waiter-ish kind of fellow.

I stood up since everyone in the kitchen was watching us anyway.  "You haven't seen any missing plutonium, have you?" I asked.  Hey, it might have worked.

It might have but it didn't.  I noticed his Dr. Evil No.com shirt right away and sucker punched him in the throat, crushing his windpipe.  He went down along with the sack of wet potatoes he'd been leaning on.  I'd always wondered what a sack of wet potatoes would sound like when it hit the floor.

Too bad I didn't have time to find out.  The rest of the kitchen came towards me.  Several of the fake chefs even carried cleavers and long boning knives.  One man and two women were the closest so I wrapped my hand around the handle of a dirty frying pan on the dishwasher table and smacked each one along side the head, knocking them into tomorrow.

"Anna!" cried one of the un-katonged chefs.  You know, one of those special people carrying a cleaver.  Only he wasn't carrying it anymore.  He threw it at me instead.  My cat-like reflexes saved me as I avoided the cleaver.  Now that was just downright nasty.  A cleaver with my outfit?  That just wasn't going to do.

I pulled out my magnum .44 and aimed it at that dreg on society.  "You feel lucky today, punk?" I asked him, sighting down the barrel.

"Um, no," he replied, frantically looking for another cleaver to throw my way.

Blamm-o! rang out one shot, turning his chef's hat a bright red.

"You got that right, punk.  How about, you?  You feel lucky?"

"I did before you walked in here," the second fake-chef replied honestly.  But he was still a punk.

Blamm-o! rang out another shot, turning that chef's shirt a bright crimson red.  So much for that dot-com recognition.

"Maybe so, punk, maybe so."

The third chef stopped in his tracks as I aimed the gun at him.  

"Well, punk, what's it going to be?  Did you keep track of all the shots I fired?  In all the confusion I kind of lost track.  Did I fire five shots or six?  Do you want to take the chance to find out?  This is a .44 magnum, the most powerful handgun ever created.  Do you want to make my day, punk?  Do you?"

"Um, you only fired two shots, sir," the cowardly chef said, dropping his knife.

Blamm-o, blamm-o, blamm-o, blamm-o, click, click.  Little bastard was right as the gun clicked empty.

I made a mental note to not use up all my bullets until I knew all the bad guys were dead as the maitre d' came in.  "Okay, I got rid of those other customers.  Frankie, what's the status on the Baked…?  Frankie?  Donny?  Alfonso?  What happened?"

"I happened to them," I said, patting my pockets for spare bullets.

"No!  Um, I mean, ah, yes, Mr. Bond.  I was expecting you.  But did you have to kill my staff?  Such evil help is so hard to find these days," he said, taking off a wig.

"Dr. Evil No," I said.  "You're under arrest."  Where were those damn spare bullets?

"No!  I won't be taken alive!"

"Suits me, chrome dome," I said casually, taking the cleaver out of the wall and throwing it at Dr. Evil No.  You know, I should have known he was the maitre d' all along.  I have got to start paying closer attention to those video files HQ keeps sending me instead of deleting them from my system in order to make room for those porn downloads.

Dr. Evil No's reflexes were pretty good and he ducked out of the way of the blade, coming up with a 10" long carving knife he found on the floor.  "No!  My turn, pretty boy!"

"You really think I'm pretty?" I asked, picking up my own set of steak knives from the floor.  "I mean, I really wanted to make a good impression on my date tonight."

Klink, klink-klink-klink, slash, klink-klink, slash, gash.

"No!  First blood to you, Mr. Bond.  I guess you're dressed up okay for your date.  But scoping out guys really isn't my thing.  Who's your date?"

Klink, klinkity-klink-klink, slash, slash, slash, klinkity-klink, slash, gash.

"Good follow through, Dr. Evil No.  You got me fair and square in the arm that time.  She's a girl I know in school.  Name's Quinn Morgendorffer."

Klink-klink-klink-klink, slash, slash, slash, slash, klinkity-klink, gash.

"No!  That's Quinn Morgendorffer?  You lucky dog you."

"You don't know the half of it," I replied, catching his foot with mine and forcing him back so he tripped.  He went down on the guy with the wet potatoes.

"No!  You won't get my Baked Alaska!" he shouted as I disarmed him with a steak knife through the hand.

"I didn't want it to begin with, you whacked out bald creep!  Now tell me where the missing plutonium is and I'll let you go!"

"NO! You will just kill me if I tell you, Mr. Bond."

"C'mon, don't you trust me?"

"NO!"  No awkward pause this time as I shoved the other steak knife through his eye and into his brain, killing him.  "NOO – grrrgglggglaaaaaaaaaaa…"  He quit twitching soon enough.

"That's good.  You shouldn't trust strangers.  Now let's see, if I were missing bomb-grade plutonium, where would I be?  Hmmm."  I looked around the kitchen for clues.  It hit me all at once.  I snapped my fingers in comprehension, grabbed some oven mitts and then ran for the oven.  I then pulled out something that resembled a Baked Alaska, quickly throwing it into the lead-shielded nuclear box.  All was again safe for god and country.  

And best yet, I got out without having to pick up the tab or leave a tip.  Score!

After a quick call to HQ, I turned out the lights in the kitchen and went back out to the dining room.  I put a CLOSED sign in the window and went back to the table only to see Quinn coming back from the powder room.  She looked at me curiously.

"What's wrong, Jeffy?  You look out of breath."

We needed to leave before my cover was blown.  "Let's eat somewhere else, somewhere… with a better desert tray.  And with living waiters."

"Living waiters?" she asked confused.

"Um, I mean, a better wait staff.  Look at this, they haven't even brought  you your star-shaped ice yet."  I escorted her out of the restaurant.

"Oh, I'd go anywhere with  you, Jeffy.  You're so handsome and rugged and strong.  Not like those other two lunkheads."

"Oh, Quinn, stop it.  You're embarrassing me."

The End 

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                                       Discussion.  What conclusions can you draw from this story?  Geoff?  Debbie?  Who is Jeff Bonder?

Geoff:                                     Well, I can tell you that he didn't write any more than he had to.

Nick:                                       Why do you say that?

Debbie:                                  Take a look at the story itself.  There were moments when it was interesting, others when it wasn't.  He could have expanded the story but instead simply put down the least amount he could.

Kara:                                       Was this guy related to that Kevin Thompson moron?  A cousin or something?

Nick:                                       They played football on the same team.  That close enough for you?

Rose:                                      Maybe it's a jock thing where moron-ity spreads.

Diana:                                     Hey!

Diane:                                     Hey!

Debbie:                                  Hey!

Nick:                                       People!  We're getting off track here.  Debbie, why do you think he wrote that story?

Debbie:                                  I really think he wrote that story because he had to.  He didn't do any more than he had to either.  Sure, he used images of old movies like the Bond series but there's only been 32 Bond movies over the last 90 years so who wouldn't use that if they could.  

Geoff:                                     I guess it could have been worse and she could have been more of a protagonist in the story rather than just an old-style Bond girl.

Debbie:                                  True, but how I viewed it, there just wasn't anything special about this story.  I caught references to the Austin Powers parody angle but why he'd import images from a 70-year old man trying to put the moves on a woman just gave me the willies.

Bob:                                        I think you have to go back to when he wrote the story, Debs.  At the time, there'd only been two Austin Powers movies released and that 70-year old guy was still fairly young at the time.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Thank you, Bob.  You are correct.

Bob:                                        And you said my knowledge of old movies and TV would never come in handy.

Barry:                                     Um, actually she never said that.  I did.

Bob:                                        You suck.

Barry:                                     Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment as I'm sure it was intended.

Nick:                                       Anyone else want to give their input as to why he wrote this story?

Larissa:                                  How about you, Nick?  Why do _you think he wrote it?_

Nick:                                       Actually, that's not fair.  I already know why he wrote it.

Anne:                                     And?

Nick:                                       And I can't tell you yet.  You'll find out soon enough.  Trust me.  In the meantime, whatever happened to Jeff Bonder?

Geoff:                                     I was able to get a tracking program to locate him fairly quickly. 

Debbie:                                  _You?_

Geoff:                                     Fine.  _We were able to find him quickly I mean.  We found that he graduated from Lawndale High and went to a community college.  He left after one semester.  I confirmed later on he left because he couldn't get anyone interested in doing the partying scene as it was a commuter school and there were any frat houses or sorority houses and all that._

Debbie:                                  So he leaves college and takes a course at an OTR Truck Driving school.  He graduated and for the past 46 years has been a long haul trucker.  We found that he married in his early 20's and current has four kids, one of which is named Quinn which probably wouldn't have been a problem if he hadn't had all boys.  The kids are all grown and have given him and his divorced wife of nine years 10 grandchildren.

Geoff:                                     We contacted him for our report and he was forthcoming with answers.

Debbie:                                  That was only because you kept leading him on that you were in contact with his old flame, Quinn and he was sniffing around for her phone number.

Geoff:                                     I could have been in contact with her.

Debbie:                                  Whatever you say.  Needless to say, once he got wind that Geoff didn't have her phone number, he didn't want to talk to us anymore.

Thomas:                                 Jeez, Geoff, have you thought of going into police interrogation after you graduate?

Geoff:                                     I've given it some thought.  But the pay's lousy.

Debbie:                                  I have a question, Nick.  Jeff talked about going out with Quinn Morgendorffer.  She is also on the list so that means he referenced a real person in the story.  Well, at least one real person.  Anyway, my question is, did she ever read this story and if so, what did she think about it?

Nick:                                       Excellent question, Debbie.  It just so happens I thought along those lines as well and did a little research.  This is what I found.  Loading… now.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

BEGIN VIDEO 

December 2001.

Location: Lawndale High, hallways.  Time: morning.

Daria is standing at her locker, waiting.  Quinn is standing next to Daria's locker, reading some papers.  She finishes and looks up.

Quinn:                                    Cuter than me?  I wonder if it'll be _embarrassing when I kill him?_

Daria:                                      You can't do that.

Quinn:                                    Sure I can.

Daria:                                      No you can't.  If you did, you'd go to jail and have to wear orange prison inmate jumpsuits.

Quinn:                                    …you're right.  I don't look good in orange.  How about if I smack him into next week?

Daria:                                      There you go.

Off-camera Voice1:                Quinn?!

Off-camera Voice2:                Are you busy tonight?

Off-camera Voice3:                I was going to ask her that!

Off-camera Voice1:                Quite both of you!  I was here first!

Joey, Jamie and Jeffy come on camera, pushing each other out of the way to get to Quinn first.

Daria:                                      And speaking of next week…

Quinn:                                    Joey, Jared…

Jamie:                                     That's Jamie.

Quinn:                                    Whatever.  Can you two be dears and get me a diet coke?

Joey:                                       With ice, right?

Quinn:                                    Of course.  Now go along you two, shoo!

Joey and Jamie leave quickly.

Jeffy:                                      Um, Quinn, what do you need me to get?

Quinn:                                    Why, nothing, Jeffy.  I wanted you here all to myself.

Jeffy:                                      Score!  Thank you, God!

Daria:                                      I think this is my cue to leave.

Quinn:                                    Why don't you do that, Daria.

Daria leaves.

Jeffy:                                      So, uh, Quinn, about tonight…

Quinn:                                    Don't go on worrying about tonight, Jeffy.  Let's talk about next week.

Jeffy:                                      Huh?  Next week?  I don't get it.

Quinn:                                    Oh,  but you will.  Believe me, you will.  Let's take a stroll down this deserted hallway where the lighting isn't so good and Ms. Li's cameras aren't installed yet, okay?  There's something I want to talk to you about.

Off-camera Jeffy's voice:                You need help on your homework?

Off-camera Quinn's voice:                You might say it's more along the lines of non-verbal communication.

**VIDEO ENDS**

Nick:                                       Okay, I think we can all guess as to what happened next.  So what was in his time capsule?

Geoff:                                     He put in an honest to God Timex watch.  The kind that rolls around with a number to indicate the day of the month.  Made with virgin plastic of all things.

Debbie:                                  He may have been a lousy writer but at least he had sense to put a Timex into the time capsule.  We've already had it appraised and gotten some offers for a half million already.

Nick:                                       You do realize that you don't get to keep the artifacts, don't you?

Geoff:                                     (triumphant grin fading) What?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    They've already been registered under the school's Tax ID.  Have been since the time capsule was opened and cataloged.

Debbie:                                  What?

Nick:                                       And an insurance policy was set in place against it.  The reason I gave you two the project was that I knew your trusts had sufficient funds to cover the loss of the watch should anything happen to it.  Once the assignment is over, you have to give it back.  This isn't finder's-keeper's.  Nothing's happened to it has it?

Geoff:                                     Um… no.

Debbie:                                  It's not like we've set up an auction or anything for this Saturday.

Geoff:                                     Um… no, nothing like that at all.

Nick:                                       That's good to hear.  I wouldn't want you to be in violation of your class contract, clause 23.  That would not look good on a transcript.

Geoff:                                     Whoa, look at that.  My pager's going off.  How about that – it's my financial lawyer.  Do you mind if I take this call out in the hallway?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    I'm charging you an early-exit fee, Mr. Roberts.

Geoff:                                     Not a problem.  I really need to make… I mean, take this call.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Then by all means, knock yourself out, Geoff.

Geoff exits the classroom, cell phone in hand.

Nick:                                       Good job, you two.  Let's call it a day.  Okay, who're my next victims for story-time?

Two students raise their hands.

Nick:                                       John?  Elizabeth?  You two ready to go?  I thought you might be after today.  Good enough.  

_NEXT:                                   Joey's story: My Date (And Not Jamie or Jeffy's) With Quinn! _

Contact me if you want:

jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2001 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).  

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed.  Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you.  A coincidence!   To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real.  Or could it?  I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	9. Joey's Story My Date With Quinn

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!**

**My Date (And Not Jamie or Jeff's) With Quinn!**

**By Joe Green**

**(Transcribed by Steve Brown)**

It had all the trimmings of being just another average day.  Then the bell rang and school was out for the weekend.  I gathered my things and put them in storage while other, younger – heck, they were just kids – students flew out the school doors.  As I closed my locker door, two students swaggered up towards me.  Two students who were also my best friends.

"Hey, Joey," the first one said, pulling his hands out of his pockets.

"James," I replied with a nod.

"Hey," said the second one, looking around for someone.

"Jeffry," I responded.  Ah.  There was who Jeff was looking for.  A cute redhead.  Her name, Quinn Morgendorffer.  Two guesses as to what they wanted to do to me to impress her.

"Now!" yelled Jamie as he took a swipe at my head.  Jeffrey threw a punch towards my stomach.  Same old boys.  Same old tactic.  You would have thought by now they would have learned.  But they were a couple of numbskulls.

I ducked beneath Jamie's punch and stood back up, grabbing Jeffrey's wrist, continuing his momentum to the wall that he so conveniently punched.

"Oh, a wise guy, eh?" Jamie muttered.

"You got a problem with that, tough guy?" I asked, poking him in the eyes with two fingers.

"Oh, ow, ow, ow!" he yelped, covering his face with his hands.  I used that moment to my advantage and grabbed Jeffrey's hair and yanked up.

"Yahh-aaahhh-ahhhh!" he yahh-aaahhh-ahhhhed, but came up along with the hair.  He was off balance as I poked him in the eyes as well and then pushed him into Jamie.  The two of them went down in one heap.

They struggled to get up quickly and have another go at me, so I karate-chopped each on the base of the neck.  Down they went with not-so-subtle moans.

"Really, you two numbskulls," I said.  "You've got to get some new moves.  Now get out of my way."  I walked over them and headed towards the cute as a button Quinn.  "You know," I started, "they only do that when you're around."

"Wow, déjà vu.  I mean, I know," she confessed.  "That's why I try to keep them away from me.  I didn't really want to see you get hurt.  We cute people have to stick together.  Even if you are cuter than me."

"Me?  Cute?  I'm not cute.  Handsome, rugged, outdoorsy, intelligent, your perfect guy, but not cute."

She giggled at that.  I forgot that I was also adorable.

"Um," she started, "would you like to go out with me tonight, Joey?"

"Now, Quinn," I admonished.  "Call me old fashioned, but I think it should be the man asking the woman out and not the other way around."

"Sorry," she shrugged her shoulders.

"But what the hell?  It's the 21st century so why shouldn't we change a few outdated concepts?  If you want to go out with me tonight, at 7pm, wearing your best outfit, and ready to make out in the back of my Chevy, who am I to say no?" I said mainly to annoy the two waking, sore lunkheads behind me.

"Sure.  My treat?"

"How can I say no to women's lib?  How about Chez Pierre?  I hear they have French food like French bread and French dressing for salads and stuff."

"Sure," she glowed.

"I'll pick you up at 7:00 tonight."

"I'll wait for you," she said, her breathing a little fast.  "All night if I have to, Joey."

I knew she would.  After all, how could she resist my manly charm and excellent physique.

*************

I revved the motor in my car to get the oil circulating and then tore out of the parking lot, taking the speed bumps at an even speed of 55 mph.  The car leaped out onto the street, just in front of the traffic that got the green light moments before.  I didn't really worry about an accident as my Chevy was able to plow over most cars ever since I'd souped it up to a V12 engine and raised it off the ground by three additional feet to accommodate the tires.

"Gah-dammit!  You lousy punks need to learn how to drive!" shouted one irate driver, his fist shaking out the window.  Really, he had to learn to take it easy or he'd be a prime candidate for a heart attack.  "Gah-dammit!  Now look…" his voice faded into the distance as I weaved through traffic.  I glanced back at him.  He looked familiar.  Ah, I had it.  He was the guy with the hotdogs at school.  Jake Consulting or something.  

No, it was something else.  He looked familiar.  Ah!  Had it!  It was Quinn's uncle or something.  

I lost track of him as I made it through more lights and took a curve at a good speed to lose the flashing pursuit.  I knew I shouldn't have gone this fast, but it wasn't that often that I got to go out on a date.  Well, a date that I didn't feel was too far beneath me.  And this time I was going out on a date with Quinn Morgendorffer herself.  

A block from home I slowed down to an agonizingly slow 20 mph.  I pulled into my house's garage and closed the door before any of the flashing pursuit could see my car or run the plate.  I quickly noticed that the other space in the garage was empty – meaning that my parents weren't home.  Inside, I walked into the kitchen and noticed the message board on the wall by the phone.  A message was on it.

_Joey:_

_Dad and I are going out to basket-weaving class and then dinner.  Call for pizza for yourself.  Cash is in the drawer.  NO PARTIES!  Love and kisses._

_Mom_

I smiled at the note.  I was glad my parents weren't home now as they usually had a lot of questions they wanted answered.  Where had I been?  Where was I going?  Who was I going out with?  What's this I hear about you poking people in the eyes again?  Why can't you get a job?  Why, when I was a kid your age… blah, blah, blah.  I was glad they were concerned about my welfare and all, but how could I tell them that I'd been recruited two years ago to join a spy network and was now one of their top agents?  How did I let them know that when I usually went out for non-football events I was usually armed to the teeth and ready to poke more people in the eyes?  How did I let them know that the protection talk they gave me a few weeks ago was already old news?  God, I hoped they never found out about that.  They'd freak.  So would Sandi.

Glancing at my watch, I noticed I had just enough time for a long shower.  I didn't bother with my homework as I had already done it during classes today.  I turned on the handles and jumped in when it got good and steamy.  I had begun lathering my well-muscled body when the darned watch began beeping.

"On," I said to the micro-microphone in the watch.  This wouldn't be good.  It never was when HQ interrupted me when I took a shower.  I was pretty sure they had a temperature control switch on this watch and when it registered a hot and steamy environment, they knew when to call.  Bastards.  If they ever got into hand/eye range…

Sure enough, the digital readout disappeared and was replaced by a real-time video shot of one George Smith.  A.k.a., my boss.  

"Sorry to interrupt you, Bond, but we need you.  You weren't doing anything hot and steamy were you?"

Bastard.  "Just taking my customary shower, George.  You know that.  You always call me when I'm in here."

"Yes, well, if these darn temp readouts…" he started, then stopped.  "Er, something's come up."

"I'm busy," I replied, rinsing the conditioner out of my hair.

"But you're the best agent we've got," he implored.

"Still busy."

"I'm afraid I have to pull rank on you, 007.  I need you to take this assignment this evening."

"Can't one of the other agents to do this?" I asked, rotating the dial on the shower massage.  "I've got a date tonight.  A hot date, man."

"Hot and steamy?" he suddenly asked.

"Could be," I led him on.

"Er, I'm afraid not, Joe.  You see, we've already sent in other agents – 008 and 009.  But they've gone missing.  You're it, 007.  Not only are you the best, but you're also the last one available in the area."

"But it's Quinn Morgendorffer we're talking about here, man."

"Quinn?" George's eyes went wide.  "Really?  Red-head, right?  Um, I mean, we still need your services."

"The fate of the free world hangs in the balance and all that, I presume.  Okay, what is it?"

"It's Dr. Evil No.  He's escaped from maximum security again and this time says he's going to show the world who're they're messing with."

"Jeez, all this because some anal bureaucratic a-hole saw that he hadn't paid 12-years worth of parking tickets," I muttered.

"What was that, 007?"

"Nothing, nothing.  Look, just give him a get-out-of-jail free card, a million dollars, and tell him to call back when it runs out.  We'll catch him.  Whoops, dropped the soap."

"Oh, god, don't ever pick up the soap again, agent 007.  Anyway, we suspect he's in your area and what with all the missing plutonium from Russia we think has been smuggled into the US these days, we think he's up to his old tricks."

"He does tricks?  You mean he's a magician?"

"No!" George replied hotly.

"Just messing with you, George.  Give me the gist of it."

And he did.  There wasn't much to tell other than some offshoot branch of his gang sprung his lousy ass out of prison and it was going to ruin my evening.

Or perhaps, maybe not.  

*************

After a quick press of my tux, it was time to go.  I went downstairs.  My parents still weren't home (always a good sign).  I grabbed the keys to my Trans-AM and hit the road.

Soon enough I was at the Morgendorffer residence.  Quinn's cousin or something opened the door, noticed my wink and nearly passed out with desire.  Holding onto the doorknob for support, she called over her shoulder for Quinn.  I smiled at the kindness and she swooned again.

Quinn walked down the stairs and took a hold of my waiting arm.

"My, Joey," Quinn said as I escorted her to the car, opening her door.  "You sure clean up nicely.  Look how well you're dressed compared to those other two football guys, whose names I don't remember, you hang around with at school."

"Please, you're embarrassing me," I replied candidly.  "By the way, you look pretty hot yourself, babe."

"Thanks," she giggled.  "Um, Joey, I know we haven't even gone on our date and all yet but do you think I could be one of your Bond girls?"

I looked at her cute redheaded face and said, "I'll think about it."

"Oooohhh, you're the best I can ever hope for, Joey."

True, too true.  But it was a price I was willing to pay.

*************

The drive to the restaurant was uneventful and I was grateful for that considering the last time I went out on a date I had to shoot the tires out of some quarterback creep in a jeep who thought it was funny to swerve all over the road.  Normally I wouldn't have thought twice about doing that, but my date kept crying all night as if I'd traumatized her with the shooting.  Hmmm, now that I think about it, I haven't seen her back at school since then.

In any event, we pulled into Chez Pierre's parking lot.  I had to park up close since the back of the lot was packed tight with big rigs and other large trucks.

"Joey?" Quinn asked as I opened the restaurant doors for her.  "Isn't this place a little more deserted than it normally is on a Friday evening?"

I looked around.  There wasn't anyone else in the place at all.  It did look a little light, even for the fashionably-late.  The maitre d' came out of the kitchen, a scowl on his face.

"Hey, buddy, this dump looks empty.  You open or not?" I asked of the new maitre d'.  He looked a little familiar but I couldn't quite place him.  Normally I was very good with faces, but tonight only one mattered and she was on my arm.  Her arm was on my arm, I mean, not her face.

"NO!" shouted the maitre 'd.  Then, "Um, I mean, yes it is, sir.  Open, that is."

"Oh, okay, cool.  Anyway, I have a reservation under Bond, Joe Bond.  Chop-chop, man."

"NO!  Um, I mean, yes, here it is, Mr. Bond.  We're a little short staffed tonight so I will be your host as well as your waiter.  Would you care for the wine list?"

"Nah, I don't think so.  Do you have Pepsi here?"

"NO!"

A moment went by before I realized he wasn't going to say anything else.

"Oh, okay," Quinn said.  "I'll just have a diet whatever then.  With star-shaped ice."

"NO!  Um, I mean, certainly Madame.  Would Monsieur and Madame care to order?"

"What are the specials?"

"NO specials!"

"Oh, okay," Quinn said.  "I'll have a salad."

"NO!  Um, I mean, what kind of dressing?"

"Ces…" she started, watching him.

"N…"  he started, watching her.

"Ita…"

"N…"

"Ran…"

"N…"

"French?" she finished.

"Oui, Madame.  And for Monsieur?"

"Gimme a pizza," I said.

"NO!  I mean… NO!  Look, this is an upscale French restaurant.  And you want a pizza?"

"Sure.  Oh, okay.  Make it a French bread pizza."

"NO!"

Another awkward silence went by before I realized he wasn't going to say anything else.

"Then what do you suggest?" I asked.

"NO!  I mean, I think you should forget with the pizza and go directly for desert since that is what the decadent French, I mean, the glorious French people make so well."

"Well, now you're talking.  How about an ice cream sundae?"

"NO!"

"App…" I started.

"N…" he started.

"Cherr…"

"N…"

"Key Lim…"

"N…"

"You know, maybe I'll just order it when we're done with the meal first," I said, closing the menu.

"NO!  I mean, only the refined order desert at the beginning of the meal, right Madame?"

"Um, I guess so.  So what do you recommend?  The fruit tray?"

"NO!  Absolutely not.  It is awful.  Don't waste your pretty little appetite on it.  May I recommend a Baked Alaska?"

"Don't you think that will be a little heavy?"

"NO!  It will be a good size.  Possibly the size of a mushroom.  Heh-heh-heh."

"How's the cheese-less cheesecake look tonight?"

"NO!  I mean, we're out."

"You sure I can't have some ice cream?"

"NO!  I mean, we're out of that as well."

I sighed.  This wasn't my night.  "I guess the Baked Alaska will do then."

"N—Very good, sir.  I'll have the staff prepare it forthwith."  He snapped the menus out of our hands and headed for the kitchen.

Quinn looked at me with a distinct fondness in her eyes.  When she realized I was staring back, she said, "Oh, um, excuse me, Joey.  I need to go to the ladies room."

She got up and went to the other side of the restaurant.  At about that time, another couple came in through the front doors which jingled as the bells above the door clanged.  The head waiter, that guy with the horrible accent, stormed out of the kitchen on an intercept course.  Great.  That gave me time to get some work in.

Normally I hated to work when I was out on a date, but my duty to my country made it clear that it was something I needed to do.  Besides, I'd heard that Quinn didn't put out on the first date anyway.  Well, not much.  I got up from the table and headed for the kitchen, squeezing past a barely open door and stealing a quick look.

The first thing I noticed was that it was apparent the department of health never showed up at this place.  After all, it wouldn't have been too hard to notice the bound, lifeless bodies of agents 008 and 009 near the freezer.  Nor any of the rest of the regular staff who were also tied up and not moving a bit since they were all dead.

There was movement in the kitchen.  I saw six men and women wearing Dr. Evil No henchmen shirts worked the lines where the cooks usually hung out.  I loved new-age marketing and dot-com registering, especially when it came to t-shirts as the bad guy made it easy for you to know he (or she) was a bad guy when they wore their company's logo.  Not that the good guys were above this – quite the opposite – they would if they could.  But due to some budget crunches by some cheap ass bastards in the Senate…

Uh-oh.  This didn't look good.  They were making the salads way too large.  If I ate one of those, I wouldn't even be hungry for my entrée, let alone desert.  Crouching along, I finally saw was I was looking for – the sure-tell sign of a yellow nuclear box, its box lid up and the box itself empty.  The plutonium had gone missing.  But where was it?

"'Ey!  'Ou are you?  An' whar's your buzzboy uniform?" someone asked me, tapping my shoulder.

I looked up.  "My uniform is with my fake French accent, you jerk.  Now keep quiet, I'm busy."  I just had to find that plutonium.  The fate of the free world, as well as the rest of my date with Quinn resided on it.

"'Ou are you, eh?" asked the waiter-ish kind of fellow.

I stood up since everyone in the kitchen was watching us anyway.  "You haven't seen any missing plutonium, have you?" I asked.  Hey, it might have worked.

It might have but it didn't.  I noticed his Dr. Evil No.com shirt right away and sucker punched him in the throat, crushing his windpipe.  He didn't go down so I poked him in the eyes for good measure.  I never hurt to do that.  He went down along with the sack of wet potatoes he'd been leaning on.  I'd always wondered what a sack of wet potatoes would sound like when it hit the floor.

Too bad I didn't have time to find out.  The rest of the kitchen came towards me.  Several of the fake chefs even carried cleavers and long boning knives.  One man and two women were the closest so I wrapped my hand around the handle of a dirty frying pan on the dishwasher table and smacked each one along side their head.

"Aaaaahhhh!" cried out one faux-chef.

"Dammit, that really hurt!" yelled out another, clutching his skull.

"Man, that's gonna leave a mark," complained the last.

What the heck did it take to make these guys go down?  I wrested with that thought for all of one moment before I stepped up to each and poked them in the eyes, a double gouge each.  That did it.  They went down, one hand covering eyes, the other holding their skulls from popping.

"Anna!" cried one of the un-katonged chefs.  You know, one of those special people carrying a cleaver.  Only he wasn't carrying it anymore.  He threw it at me instead.  My cat-like reflexes saved me as I avoided the cleaver.  Of course, the cleaver went into one of the fake chefs on the floor and he was no longer concerned about his eyes or skull anymore.  In fact, he wasn't concerned about anything.

I pulled out my magnum .44 and aimed it at that dreg on society.  "You feel lucky today, punk?" I asked him, sighting down the barrel.

"Um, no," he replied, frantically looking for another cleaver to throw my way.

Blamm-o! rang out one shot, turning his chef's hat a bright red.

"You got that right, punk.  How about you?  You feel lucky?"

"I did before you walked in here," the second fake-chef replied honestly.  But he was still a punk.  And he was out of eye-poking range.  Oh well.

Blamm-o! rang out another shot, turning that chef's shirt a bright crimson red.  So much for that dot-com recognition.

"Maybe so, punk, maybe so."

The third chef stopped in his tracks as I aimed the gun at him.  

"Well, punk, what's it going to be?  Did you keep track of all the shots I fired?  In all the confusion I kind of lost track.  Did I fire five shots or six?  Do you want to take the chance to find out?  This is a .44 magnum, the most powerful handgun ever created.  Do you want to make my day, punk?  Do you?"

"Um, you only fired two shots, sir," the cowardly chef said, dropping his knife.

Blamm-o, blamm-o, blamm-o, blamm-o, click, click.  Little turd was right as the gun clicked empty.

I made a mental note to not use up all my bullets until I knew all the bad guys were dead as the maitre d' came in.  "Okay, I got rid of those other customers.  Frankie, what's the status on the Baked…?  Frankie?  Donny?  Alfonso?  What happened?"

"I happened to them," I said, patting my pockets for spare bullets.

"No!  Um, I mean, ah, yes, Mr. Bond.  I was expecting you.  But did you have to kill my staff?  Such evil help is so hard to find these days," he said, taking off a wig.

"Dr. Evil No," I said.  "You're under arrest."  Where were those damn spare bullets?

"No!  I won't be taken alive!"

"Suits me, you waste of skin," I said casually, taking the cleaver out of a dead chef on the floor and throwing it at Dr. Evil No.  You know, I should have known he was the maitre d' all along.  I have got to start paying closer attention to those video files HQ keeps sending me instead of deleting them from my system in order to make room for those South Park downloads.

Dr. Evil No's reflexes were pretty good and he ducked out of the way of the blade, coming up with a 10-inch long carving knife he found on the floor.  "No!  My turn, pretty boy!"

"You really think I'm pretty?" I asked, picking up my own set of steak knives from the floor.  "I mean, I really wanted to make a good impression on my date tonight."

Klink, klink-klink-klink, slash, klink-klink, slash, gash.

"No!  First blood to you, Mr. Bond.  I guess you're dressed up okay for your date.  But scoping out guys really isn't my thing.  Who's your date?"

Klink, klinkity-klink-klink, slash, slash, slash, klinkity-klink, slash, gash.

"Good follow through, Dr. Evil No.  You got me fair and square in the arm that time.  She's a girl I know in school.  Name's Quinn Morgendorffer."

Klink-klink-klink-klink, slash, slash, slash, slash, klinkity-klink, gash.

"No!  That's Quinn Morgendorffer?  You lucky dog you."

"You don't know the half of it," I replied.

Klink-klink-klink, slash, gash, POKE!

"NO!!  Aaaahhh, you put my eye out, Mr. Bond!"

"Serves you right, you frickin' nutjob.  Making me miss out on a date because you're ticked due to outstanding parking tickets."

"No!  They weren't my fault!  It was my… wife at the time!  Yeah, that's it!  My wife!"

Poke!  "Tell me the truth, you scumball!"

"NO!"  Poke.  "All right, you thug!  I did it!  I parked without paying at the meter all those times!  Happy?!"

"For the last time, dimwit, you ruined my evening!  How the heck can I be happy?!  Jeez, all you old creeps are the same!"

"No!  Call me what you will, Mr. Bond.  You won't get my Baked Alaska!" he shouted as I disarmed him with a steak knife through the hand.

"I didn't want it to begin with, you whacked out bald geezer!  Now tell me where the missing plutonium is and I'll let you go!"

"NO! You will just kill me if I tell you, Mr. Bond."

"C'mon, don't you trust me?"

"NO!"  No awkward pause this time as I shoved the other steak knife through his eye and into his brain, killing him.  "NOO – grrrgglggglaaaaaaaaaaa…"  He quit twitching soon enough.

"That's good.  You shouldn't trust strangers.  Now let's see, if I were missing bomb-grade plutonium, where would I be?  Hmmm."  I looked around the kitchen for clues.  It hit me all at once.  I snapped my fingers in comprehension, grabbed some oven mitts and then ran for the oven.  I then pulled out something that resembled a Baked Alaska, quickly throwing it into the lead-shielded nuclear box.  All was again safe for god and country.  

And best yet, I got out without having to pick up the tab or leave a tip.  Score!

After a quick call to HQ, I turned out the lights in the kitchen and went back out to the dining room.  I put a CLOSED sign in the window and went back to the table only to see Quinn coming back from the powder room.  She looked at me curiously.

"What's wrong, Joey?  You look out of breath."

We needed to leave before my cover was blown.  "Let's eat somewhere else, babe.  Somewhere… with a better desert tray.  And with living waiters."

"Living waiters?" she asked confused.

"Um, I mean, a better wait staff.  Look at this, they haven't even brought  you your star-shaped ice yet."  I escorted her out of the restaurant.

"Oh, I'd go anywhere with  you, Joey.  You're so handsome and rugged and strong.  Not like those other two lunkheads."

"Oh, Quinn, stop it.  You're embarrassing me."

The End 

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                                       Discussion.  What conclusions can you draw from this story?  John?  Elizabeth?  Tell me about Joe Green.

John:                                      Well, I'm pretty sure everyone here can agree on one thing.  That this story is a rip-off of the last one done by Jeff.

Geoff:                                     Don't forget – he didn't write any more than he had to.

Nick:                                       A point which we discussed last time, Geoff.

Kara:                                       Was this guy related to that Kevin Thompson moron?  A cousin or something?

Bob:                                        I fell like I'm in a time loop.

Colin:                                      You're not the only one.

Nick:                                       Okay, okay, point taken.

Rose:                                      I bet they played football on the same team, didn't they?

Bob:                                        It has to be a job thing where moron-ity spreads.

Diana:                                     Hey!

Diane:                                     Hey!

Debbie:                                  Hey!

Nick:                                       Enough already!  No sense going over previous comments.  John, why do you think he wrote that story?

John:                                      Well, my first comment to that is, did he actually write that story?

Nick:                                       Explain your question, please.

John:                                      It's simple.  This story was basically the same as the last one.  Elizabeth and I split the work initially.  I'd take the story and she'd go after the author.  I reviewed this story and compared it to the last one and sure as I'm only getting 6.35% on my investments this quarter, other than a few lines here and there being different, this was exactly the same story.  The characters were the same, the dialog was the same, the pacing was the same.

Bob:                                        So you're saying this was the same story as the last rather than being the same story as the current.

John:                                      What the hell are you talking about, Bob?

Bob:                                        Nothing.  Just messing with you is all.

John:                                      Then stuff it.

Nick:                                       No, no, let him talk, John.  Bob, tell me what your perspective is on all this.

Bob:                                        Hah?

Nick:                                       Why do you think Jeff Bonder wrote that story?

Bob:                                        Oh.  Um, I'd have to say it was because he was lazy.

Barry:                                     Care to elaborate?

Bob:                                        Isn't that a big word for you?

Barry:                                     Maybe.  But I'd still like to see you do it.  E-lab-or-ate.  Expound on the subject.  Elucidate if you don't mind.

Bob:                                        You suck.

Barry:                                     Coming from you I'm going to take it as the compliment I'm sure it was intended as.

Bob:                                        …mutter, mutter, lousy, mumble.  Fine.  I think this author and the last one conspired to write a story together as it was the easiest way to get the assignment out of the way.  That's why both stories are the same.  It's also the lazy way to do things.

Nick:                                       Very good, Bob.  Anyone else wish to e-lab-or-ate?

Colin:                                      I've got agree with Bob on this.  Jeff and Joe took the easy way out.

John:                                      Hey, Nick.  What happened when Quinn found out about this story?  What did she do to Joe?

Nick:                                       What makes you so sure she read it?

Kara:                                       Please, give us a little credit.  She read the first one because her sister let her.  Stands to reason she'd see this one as well.

Nick:                                       Well, it turns out you're right, Kara, John.  She did read it.  Here's what happened.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

BEGIN VIDEO 

December 2001.

Location: Lawndale High, hallways.  Time: morning.

Daria is standing at her locker, waiting.  Quinn is standing next to Daria's locker, reading some papers.  She finishes and looks up.

Quinn:                                    Cuter than me?  I'm going to kill him too!

Daria:                                      You can't do that.

Quinn:                                    Sure I can.

Daria:                                      No you can't.  Orange prison inmate jumpsuits, remember?

Quinn:                                    …you're right.  How about if I smack him into next week?

Daria:                                      Didn't you already do that with Jeffy?

Quinn:                                    You haven't seen him for the past week, have you?

Daria:                                      Point.

Off-camera Voice1:               Quinn?!

Off-camera Voice2:               Are you busy tonight?

Off-camera Voice3:               I was going to ask her that!

Off-camera Voice1:               Quite both of you!  I was here first!

Joey, Jamie and Jeffy come on camera, pushing each other out of the way to get to Quinn first.

Daria:                                      And speaking of next week…

Quinn:                                    Jeffy, Jehosephat…

Jamie:                                     It's Jamie.

Quinn:                                    Whatever.  Can you two be dears and get me a diet coke?

Jeffy:                                      With ice, right?

Quinn:                                    Of course.  Now go along you two, shoo!

Jeffy and Jamie leave quickly.

Joey:                                       Um, Quinn, what do you need me to get?

Quinn:                                    Why, nothing, Joey.  I wanted you here all to myself.

Joey:                                       Score!  Thank you, God!

Daria:                                      I think this is my cue to leave.

Quinn:                                    Why don't you do that, Daria.

Daria leaves.

Joey:                                       So, uh, Quinn, about tonight…

Quinn:                                    Don't go on worrying about tonight, Joey.  Let's talk about next week.

Joey:                                       Huh?  Next week?  I don't get it.

Quinn:                                    Oh,  but you will.  Believe me, you will.  Let's take a stroll down this deserted hallway where the lighting isn't so good and Ms. Li's cameras still aren't installed yet, okay?  There's something I want to talk to you about.

Off-camera Joey's voice:    You need help on your homework?

Off-camera Quinn's voice:  You might say it's more along the lines of non-verbal communication.

**VIDEO ENDS**

Mike:                                      Major déjà vu.

Colin:                                      Tell me about it.

Bzzzp-bzzzp.

Elizabeth:                               No, and don't call me here.  I'm in class.

Nick:                                       Something you want to share with the class, Elizabeth?

Elizabeth:                               No.

Larissa:                                  I still want to know why he wrote that story.

Rose:                                      Me too.  How about it, Nick?

Nick:                                       How about what?

Rose:                                      C'mon.  You said it last week.  You know why Jeff Bonder wrote his story.  It's probably the same reason Joe Green wrote his.  So what is it?

Nick:                                       Debbie?  Why do you think he wrote it?

Debbie:                                  No idea.

Nick:                                       No idea as to why he copied your author's work?

Debbie:                                  Nope.  My author was a pain, pure and simple.  I figure this guy is the same.

Bzzzp-bzzzp.

Elizabeth:                               No, and quit calling me I said.

Nick:                                       Please activate your auto-op, Elizabeth.

Elizabeth:                               I have.  He's got an override program.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Enough, you two.  Debbie, what do you mean, a pain?

Debbie:                                  It's… well, it's how I read the other stories.  Sure, some were short and others long.  But they all showed that some care and thought was put into the writing.  Not really this.  I'm almost leaning towards Bob's idea that they wrote it together.

Diana:                                     You're siding with Bob?

Debbie:                                  This time only.  The rest of the time he's a pain as well.

Nick:                                       When I first got all the stories and was reviewing the material, I came across the similar titles and had some preconceived notions of what was going on like the rest of you seem to have.  It took me a while to get this footage which should answer some of your questions.  The video is grainy and lousy, but the audio is still perfect.  Keep in mind what you said about the authors as you watch this.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

BEGIN VIDEO 

November 2001.

Location: Lawndale High, coach's office.  Time: afternoon.

Inside the coach's office, various figures can be seen standing or sitting.  It is a little unclear who is who.  The video displays at a slant and the slats of the vent are visible.  This shows more shadow than people.  The audio is heard clearly.

Coach:                                    Your performance out on the field today was sloppy!  Pathetic!  What were you ladies thinking out there?!  Oh, wait.  You weren't thinking otherwise you wouldn't have been so damn worthless today!!

Jeffy:                                      It wasn't our fault, coach, honest.

Joey:                                       Yeah, coach.  It's our school work that's causing us to mess up.

Coach:                                    Homework?!  But I'd already negotiated this semester's slide-by with Ms. Li!  Uh, I mean… uh… oh, screw it!  I don't care if you knuckleheads pass or not!  I need players!  Besides, I know your coursework and you don't have any more than any of the other players.  Look at Mack!  He manages to get his done, so why can't you?!

Jamie:                                     Maybe because he puts more effort into it since you don't cover up his grades?

Coach:                                    What was that, White?!

Jeffy:                                      It's not our regular homework, coach.

Joey:                                       Yeah, it's this extra special cold capsule thing…

Jamie:                                     Time capsule.

Joey:                                       Yeah.  Time capsule thing that Ms. Li has us working on.  We all have to do a story and submit it for the future.

Coach:                                    So what's the big deal?  Copy something out of a magazine!

Jamie:                                     Won't work.  Daria Morgendorffer is editing the stories and she'll recognize it right away.

Coach:                                    Who?

Jeffy:                                      The brain with the glasses.

Joey:                                       Quinn's sister.

Coach:                                    Look, I can't have you jugheads out on the field when your mind isn't on the game!  And we've got a big game coming up next week!  Can't you come up with any story ideas?!

Jeffy:                                      I came up with an idea, but Joey stole it.

Joey:                                       No I didn't.  You stole mine!

Coach:                                    Quiet, both of you.

Jeffy:                                      Look, Joey, writing about my date with Quinn was **MY idea and you both know it.**

Coach:                                    Shut up!  Look, why don't you all write about having a date with Quinn.  And get it done fast because if I don't see any improvement on the field, you won't be playing since I need players – not thinkers!

Joey:                                       You mean, we all write the same story?

Coach:                                    Just write up one story and then each of you take it and add your own personal touches to it.  That way it is an original story.  Got it?  Then turn it in and get ready to play some football!!

**VIDEO ENDS**

Nick:                                       As we could guess with the last author, I'm sure we don't need to surmise the following week for Joe Green.  John, Elizabeth?  What was in the time capsule?

John:                                      Well, unlike a rich find that Geoff got with the watch, we got stuck with a bunch of crap.  He left behind a bottle of dried up hair-gel, contents toxic at this point.  An empty diet cola can with writing on it that said, 'This was the 1st soda Quinn asked for – and I got it for her!  I'm the best!  I'm sure Quinn remembers.  Joey.'  And lastly, he left behind a muscle-man magazine with articles highlighting the use of steroids to increase muscle mass.  He could have thrown this all in the garbage heap and gotten just as much biodegrades out of it.

Nick:                                       Okay.  Miss Thaler?  What can you tell me about Joe Green?

Elizabeth:                               You want to know about Joe Green, you jerk?  Okay, I'll tell you about him.  He graduated in 2003.  He didn't get a scholarship and instead attended a community college.  That apparently didn't last long as he dropped out in 2004.  He then got a job driving a semi rig.

Debbie:                                  That sounds familiar.

Elizabeth:                               But that didn't last long either as he caused a wreck on the interstate, crashing into some cars during a snowstorm.  Not like he could have died and made things easier for me, oh no!  He had to go on living!

Nick:                                       You okay, Liz?

Elizabeth:                               But I'm just getting to the good part.  After being fired from the company he worked for, he went back to school.  Not a community college or even a real college.  He went back for specific training.

Bzzzp-bzzzp.

Elizabeth touched her laptop's screen.

Elizabeth:                               Not interested!

Nick:                                       Liz, if you… 

Elizabeth:                               Don't interrupt!  Where was I?  Oh… so this training he got enabled him to get a new job.  A job which he's held for the past 45 years.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Miss Thaler, if you'd like to do this another time…

Elizabeth:                               He's an insurance salesman!  Once I contacted him through a secured line, he was able to backtrace my call and has been hounding me ever since to buy insurance.  Have you thought of purchasing a memory policy he asks.  Or of taking out some bionic insurance in case something should happen down the road.  Why not get the deluxe package and protect yourself from clone attacks.  Yadda, yadda, yadda.  I thought this was going to be an interesting assignment considering all the other reports so far, buy my life's been nothing but hell since he got my name and number.  This assignment sucks!

Bzzzp-bzzzp.

Elizabeth:                               That's him again!  You set this in motion, Nick!  Make him stop.

Elizabeth's head thunked down on the desk as she sobbed.

Nick:                                       Bob, you still able to get into secured financial records?

Bob:                                        You know I can.

Nick:                                       Plug this account over Elizabeth's.

Bob:                                        I'm on it.  But you know the system will boot it out within 3 minutes and replace her with the correct ones.

Nick:                                       That'll give us enough time.  Elizabeth, answer the call and accept his offer.  Then give him your account to reference.  He'll see it and quit bothering you.

Elizabeth:                               Sniff Who's numbers are these, Nick?

Nick:                                       Mine.  They don't get much lower than that.  Just do it.

Elizabeth unplugged her laptop from the desknet and left the classroom for privacy.  She returned a few minutes later with a less stressed look on her face and sat down at her desk.

Nick:                                       Elizabeth, I'm truly sorry about this.  If I'd know what you were going to face, I'd never have put you into this position.  Good job, you two.  Let's call it a day.  Who wants to go next for story-time?

Two students raise their hands.

Nick:                                       Nicole?  Ben?  You two ready to go?  Good enough.  

_NEXT:                                   Jamie's story: My Date (And Not Jeffy or Joey's) With Quinn!_

The class does a collective moan.

Nick:                                       C'mon, it's not all that bad.  Trust me.

Contact me if you want:

jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2001 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).  

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed.  Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you.  A coincidence!   To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real.  Or could it?  I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	10. Jamie's Story My Date With Quinn

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!**

Note to you future kids who are reading this: Don't bother!  Go back to watching TV or whatever the heck it is you're doing these days.  Go scarf down some space age slurpee or something.

Reading this story is a waste of your time.  It was a waste of my time to write it.  Believe me, I should know.  I was there after all.

This is where I'm supposed to write all about me being a cool, sophisticated high-school spy who smacks around some other fellas at school, gets Quinn to ask me out, gets conscripted to locate some schmoe called Dr. Evil No (what a stupid name that was – oh, that's right, it came from both Jeff and Joe since they couldn't decide on the name of the villain for the story), then proceeds to the date which also happens to coincide with my killing Dr. Evil No.  Possibly with a 3-Stooges angle (and if you don't know who they are, your loss).  Or an Indiana Jones style.  

Puh-lease.

That story was as old as Hollywood, and besides, there wasn't any way I was going to copy Jeff or Joe's crappy work.  Not even if coach said I needed to.

At least, not anymore.

Instead, I now get to write some friggin' lousy story for a friggin' nightmare of a principal of a friggin' low-end high school in a friggin' loser town.

Fine.

Nothing else to do in study hall today anyway.  So I might as well as get this started.

**My Date (And Not Jeff's or Joe's) With Quinn!**

by Jamie White 

**(Transcribed by Steve Brown)**

I woke up to another lousy day.

It was raining when I left home and pouring when I got to school.  Fortunately, my car didn't start and I only had to walk the near mile distance.  I guess it could have been worse – I could have been wearing my shoes with the holes in the soles instead of the holes by the toes.

I got to school when the bell rang and was only slightly wet and late to my first class which, luck being on my side an all, was taught by a guest instructor, Ms. Barch for an ailing Mr. O'Neill.  Some of you wouldn't know her, that is, if you were female.  But all males in school knew her since she was a regular Hitler to the opposite chromosome.  I'm not sure what set her off as I came in – did I mention I was late? – but she went for the jugular as I took my seat.

"You!  Male!  What are you doing coming into class late?"

There was no way to win this at all, so I didn't even bother.  "I got caught in the storm," I said, taking my seat.

"Did I say you could sit down?  In case you haven't noticed, there are still women standing!  Males shouldn't sit until all women have sat first!"

Didn't I say there was no way to win this?  I got out of my seat and stood, looking around.  The only other person standing was Ms. Barch and I wasn't sure if she counted as a woman – I sometimes had my doubts.  But needless to say, since she wasn't sitting, I didn't sit.  So I stood there for the rest of the hour listening to her drone on and on, going over Mr. O'Neill's essay test scores which she rechecked and regraded this morning.  Of course, I got a D vs. the regular B or C.  Quinn got an A as did all the other girls in the class.

My day went downhill from there.

After class, I tried asking Quinn for a date but Joe and Jeff pushed past me and got there first.

My next class was Science with a certain man-hating teacher.  Yes, you guess it, future reader.  It was with Ms. Barch.  And three guesses who stood through class again.  But to be honest, all the "males" had to stand through class as she had liked the idea from an earlier class.

After that grueling hour, my knees where killing me and I wanted to sit down.  I caught up with Quinn during the break between classes but she didn't want to talk, figuring to groom herself of whatever in the girls restroom.  Since that could take a half hour or better (voice of experience here), I just went to my next class with some demented teacher whose eye bugged out constantly from a nervous tick.

I won the betting pool that day for how many times it bulged from its socket.  Of course, when I was paid, Ms. Li happened to be nearby and confiscated my winnings saying it would be reported to the IRS and my parents pronto unless I wanted to make it a donation to the school fund.  So I gave the 50 bucks to her sleazy blackmail scam.

Lunch came and went.  The less said about that the better.  I'll simply say that I won't be going back to that restroom anytime soon – at least, until they clean and disinfect it.

Afternoon classes, try to get with Quinn, Joe and Jeff start throwing punches, etc.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  Finally, though, as the school day is ending, I caught up with Quinn and asked her out.  I managed to convince Jeff and Joe that she was in another hallway which was how I got to her without having to fight off the other two.  And amazingly, she said she would go out with me.  To her favorite restaurant – which cost a bundle and which is where the missing 50 bucks would have come in handy.

But the day was finally starting to look up.

Or so I thought.  It was Wednesday.  I went to football practice after school and promptly got clobbered by the defensive team horsing around.  I should have known better than to let my guard down.  They didn't hurt me too badly – but they did manage to break my nose.

As I was getting it bandaged, coach walked over and called me a wussy for not anticipating the tackle.  Forget that I was on the sideline going over some plays with the assistant coach when the defensive squad decided it would be funny to gang tackle me to the turf.  He didn't want to hear that.  He wanted me to play football.  Heck, I wanted to play football – but let's face it, it's just a game.  You don't live or die if you don't play.

I went home, saw my sister one last time before she headed back to NYU.  Pauline was her usual, scattered self, throwing clothes into bags at the last minute like always.  She noticed the bandage, I told her what happened and she gave me the advice, "Aaaahhh, what's the coach know?  He's a jerk.  Go and have some fun on this date of yours."

The date with Quinn!  I'd almost forgotten about that!

I raced upstairs, got cleaned up as best I could, jumped in my car and raced over to Quinn's house.  I shouldn't have bothered because once she saw my face – bruising under the eyes from the broken nose – she cancelled the date saying, "Jamal…"

"Jamie."

"Whatever.  I can't be seen with you looking like that.  It would ruin my reputation.  Let's reschedule."

I must have had a stunned look on my face as she whipped out her dayplanner and penciled me in for the following week – pending facial look improvements.  She then closed the door.  I walked back to my car and drove home, normally this time.  Pauline was still there, having just finished stuffing her car with bags and all.

I told her what happened.  She was sympathetic of course, but running late with a long drive in front of her.  I told her to go on.  She got in her car and drove off.  I went back inside and had some cold pizza as my parents were out of town.

Two days later I played in the football game.  I played good enough to get a compliment out of coach who said, "Jamie – good hustle out there!  You don't stink like you normally do!"

I was really just looking to vent some frustration on the other team.  It got so I was being double teamed when coach decided I should play defense on the line.  That was good as I enjoyed the workout.  The other team's QB wasn't so lucky as I sacked him four times.

The weekend came and went.  I worked on my homework, my car, cooking something for once rather than calling for takeout.  Monday the swelling went down some and Quinn made a note in her dayplanner for this Thursday, still pending my look status.

Tuesday was September 11, 2001.  Four planes were hijacked.  One plane hit the South Tower of the World Trade Center.  Another hit the North Tower.  A third slammed into the Pentagon.  The fourth nose dived into a field in Pennsylvania, killing everyone on board but no one on the ground.  Over 3,000 people died that day that shouldn't have died.

We were told the news at school and sent home.  I drove home listening to the news.  My parents weren't back from their trip yet, so I tried calling my sister.  There was no answer.

I thought she was at school, but I had my doubts.

My parents finally called later that afternoon, saying they were stuck in Portland and would be driving home vs. flying.  They asked if I'd gotten ahold of my sister.  I told them I hadn't.  They were sure she was okay and told me of this.

The next morning I got a call from Pauline's roommate at NYU.  Pauline White, a part-time receptionist on the 105th floor of the North tower never made it out of the building.

She was officially among the missing.

Her body was found six days later.

I never did go on that date with Quinn.  I never gave it a second thought until late in the following week when she confronted me for standing her up.  I looked at her and didn't see anyone I wanted to go out with anymore.  Maybe I'd grown up, maybe I'd just had a really bad day.  It didn't matter.

There was no date.

The End 

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                                       Discussion.  What conclusions can you draw from this story?  Nicole?  Ben?  What can you tell me about Jamie White?

Ben:                                        There's not much to tell about him.  We found that he graduated high school in June of 2003 and then disappeared.  There weren't any tax records of him or anything.

Nick:                                       Possibilities?

Nicole:                                    He could have been a victim of a drive-by shooting.

Barry:                                     What the heck is that?

Nicole:                                    Apparently during the early part of the century, kids would hotwire a car, go for a joyride, and then shoot people when they got bored.

Dan:                                        Didn't they ever hear of accountability?

Nicole:                                    Apparently not.  It appears that many of these people ended up in jail and probably died during the jail uprisings in the 30's.

Nick:                                       Possibly a crime victim.  What else?

Ben:                                        He may have gone bankrupt.

Aaron:                                    Oh, god.

Nick:                                       Back then, going bankrupt didn't carry as much a stigma as it does now.  Even if he'd gone bankrupt, he was only what, 18 or 19 when he disappeared?  How solvent was a graduating teenager anyway?  What else?

Nicole:                                    He could have gone to college.

Nick:                                       You find any records?

Nicole:                                    No.  We checked the number of times his transcript was requested.  It never was.

Jim:                                         How about a community college?  Would transcripts have been requested there?

Nicole:                                    I hadn't thought of that.

Nick:                                       So what if he did go to college?  Then what?

Nicole:                                    I don't understand the question.

Nick:                                       What could have happened to cause him to disappear?

Ben:                                        Well, that's what we asked each other.  Where could he have gone?  We just don't know.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Jamie White joined the Army out of high school.  He never went to college.  He went to basic in Mississippi and was stationed stateside for roughly six months before being shipped out to Sudan.

Mike:                                      Sudan?  There's no military presence in Sudan.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Not now.  But back in 2004 there was a major international outcry against terrorism of all kinds.  And Sudan at the time harbored terrorists.

Jon:                                         Why would they do that?

Bob:                                        Money.

Jon:                                         What?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Bob's right.  It was done for money.  The terrorists greased enough official palms for them to look the other way while they plotted the destruction of the world.  This was recognized at the time by the American government.  They went into action and inserted an observation squad into the region.  Jamie White was part of that squad.

Colin:                                      So what happened?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    I won't go into specifics – we'll be covering that next year as part of your International History.  But during the last days of American ops, a terror cell attacked a Sudan refugee camp.  Sgt. James White had been in the region for a number of years by then and was part of the rearguard action to protect the Sudanees trying to escape.  He was killed in action, May 10th, 2007 while protecting a convoy of refugees.

Geoff:                                     That was dumb.

Nick:                                       How so?

Geoff:                                     He died protecting people who probably didn't appreciate his actions.  Or could even pay for it.  They were probably destitute.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    You are both right and wrong, Geoff.  True, the people in that convoy were destitute and couldn't rub two cents together.  But that didn't mean there wasn't someone there who didn't appreciate what he did.

Nick:                                       Who would that be?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    James White's pregnant wife, Sangita.  She was part of the convoy.

Debbie:                                  Way to go, Geoff.  You've got a big mouth.

Geoff:                                     How was I to know?

Nick:                                       What happened to his wife?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Sangita White made it to an evac area and was given a transport ticket stateside.

Jane (quietly):                       What is she talking about?

Bridget (quietly):                  I have no idea.  She always loses me when she starts in with her cultural slang.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    In the US, she made it to Lawndale and met her in-laws.  They took her in and several months later, she gave birth to her daughter, Susan.

Rich:                                       Susan White.  That name sounds familiar.

Diane:                                     Yeah, it does.  Where have we heard it before?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    You all know her.  You might know her better as Slashin' White.  Your gym teacher.  The same teacher who was very interested in today's class and has been logged in  to hear what was found out about the father she never knew.

Barry:                                     But why did he write that story?

Nick:                                       Good question.  Ben, Nicole, you care to answer that?

Ben:                                        Um, we kind of figured he wrote the story because they had to based on what we saw in the last archived footage with him, Joe and Jeff.  That their coach made them do it.

Nick:                                       So that's why you didn't call me to research the Li database.

Nicole:                                    Well, yeah.  Their coach spelled it all out there.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Then why do you suppose his story was different from the other two?

Nicole:                                    Um, I'm not really sure.  Maybe it was a way to get back at Mr. Barch's mother?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Nick?  Why do you think James wrote that story?

Nick:                                       I think he wrote it as a tribute.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    To who?

Nicole:                                    Not to Ms. Barch I hope.

Nick:                                       No, Nicole.  To his sister.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    How did you arrive at that conclusion?

Nick:                                       His story was different from the other two.  He could have copied it the original one but didn't.  I did a little digging in the archives and found this.  Loading… now.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

BEGIN VIDEO 

December 2001.

Location: Lawndale High, hallways.  Time: morning.

Daria is standing at her locker, reading.  She finishes and puts the papers in her backpack.  People coming down the hall make some noise.  Daria looks towards them.

Off-camera 

Quinn's voice:                      Okay, Jeffy.  I'll let you carry my books.  Thank you for the soda, Joey.

Off-camera 

Joey's voice:                         Don't mention it, Quinn.  I can't say how sorry I am that I wrote that story.  It was all Jeffy's fault anyway.

Jeffy:                                      My fault?  You're the one who came up with the idea to use real people.

Joey:                                       But not Quinn!

Quinn:                                    Jamie?  When can I read your story?

Daria:                                      You won't, Quinn.  I just found out that Ms. Li excused him from the assignment.

Quinn:                                    Oh.  Okay.

Quinn continues to walk on, Joey and Jeffy right behind her.  Jamie stayed behind.

Jamie:                                     But I turned in my story…

Daria:                                      I know.  Mr. O'Neill gave it to me yesterday to review and correct the spelling.

Jamie:                                     I didn't think anyone was going to read it.

Daria:                                      So I gathered.  Why did you write it?

Jamie:                                     I had to.

Daria:                                      No.  You had to write a story.  You could have copied the same story as Joey and Jeffy's and called it yours.  No one would have known.  Yet you wrote something else.

Jamie:                                     I… I didn't want to go there.

Daria:                                      Go where?

Jamie:                                     Go in for killing rag-heads.  You know that's what they call them?

Daria:                                      Who?

Jamie:                                     Everyone in the locker room.  That's what they call Muslims.  Except Mack of course.  He doesn't go in for stereotypes.

Daria:                                      Jamie, not all Muslims wear turbans.  And not only do some Muslims wear turbans, but also some Hindus, such as the Sikhs, wear them.  But what do you feel about the stereotypes?

Jamie:                                     I don't like it.  I mean, I think about it and all, but I don't like it.  And I didn't know other people than Muslims wore turbans.  I guess just because someone wears a turban on their head doesn't mean they should be called a rag-head.  I don't know.  I just don't get it.

Daria:                                      Get that people make fun of what they fear?

Jamie:                                     Huh?

Daria:                                      They make fun of what they fear.  They don't understand Islamic beliefs, but they do see the turban so they make fun of it.

Jamie:                                     I still don't get it.

Daria:                                      This isn't about the turbans, is it?

Jamie:                                     …no.

Daria:                                      You know, you can't hold every Islamic person responsible for the attacks on 9/11.

Jamie:                                     I know.

Daria:                                      Nor what happened to your sister.

Jamie:                                     I know that too.  But…

Daria:                                      Hmmm?

Jamie:                                     It was my fault, don't you see?  My fault she had to die.

Daria:                                      Why?

Jamie:                                     I encouraged her to get a job there.

**VIDEO ENDS**

Bob:                                        That's it?

Nick:                                       The video continued for a few more minutes but the audio couldn't be heard.  They just stood there, talking quietly.  Finally they went their separate direction towards class.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    So the sister he wrote about in his story…

Nick:                                       Was his real sister.  Different name, but same person.  I found her death certificate on record.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    And to think, all that time he carried around a guilty feeling that he'd caused her death.

Nick:                                       Maybe.  Hard to say.  I personally think he joined the Army out of high school because of that, and joining up back then was a way to not only honor her memory but also to make sure something like that never happened again.

Bob:                                        That, or to engage in some serious revenge.

Diane:                                     Geez, here we go again.  When isn't something a revenge motif for you?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    People.  We're getting off track here.  What was in the time capsule from James White?

Ben:                                        I'm not sure.

Nick:                                       What do you mean, you're not sure.

Nicole:                                    Well, we're certain at some point it was organic.

Nick:                                       And?

Nicole:                                    It sort of, um, decomposed over the past few decades.  Good thing it was in a sealed box.

Nick:                                       So what do you **_think it was?_**

Ben:                                        Best guess?  I'd say it was some old athletic socks.  Probably dirty.  Probably put in there after he'd played some football.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    So what is it now?

Nicole:                                    Noxious vapors and bits of material.  We've gone ahead and sent it on out to a gene-sink to see if they can sequence the DNA if there's any on it.  We'll see what comes up.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Why did you send it out for sequencing?

Ben:                                        We were kind of thinking we had to since his story was so short.  We felt that we might need some extra credit.

Nick (chuckles):                    Okay, you two, let me know if you find anything.  I'm sure Mrs. White would like to know some genetic makeup of her father.  Everyone, let's call it a day.  Before we go, who wants to go next?

Two students raise their hands.

Nick:                                       Thomas?  Diana?  You two ready to go?  Good enough.  

_NEXT:                                   Trent's story: The Snatch!_

Contact me if you want:

jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2001 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).  

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed.  Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you.  A coincidence!   To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real.  Or could it?  I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	11. Trent's Story The Snatch

Rating: R (violence and language) 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!  And a ****_very special thanks goes to Nemo for his plots and ideas that I used _****_extensively in this story._**

**The Snatch**

By Trent Lane 

**Transcribed by Steven A. Brown**

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzztrentzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzztrent!zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzTRENT!!!

"…urglzzblaahngh?" he managed, lifting his head off the soft, soft pillow.

"Trent!  Yo, bro!  Rise and shine!  It's half past noon.  Can't sleep all day."

"…why not?" he slumped back into the pillow.

"Because I didn't come home after my first semester at college to let you sleep while I'm awake.  Besides, I have a dead car battery."

"…just take my car and go get another one," Trent suggested, hoping she'd leave and he could get back to some serious z's.

"I thought of that very thing, but truth be told the large black oily puddle under it kind of scared me off."

"…gnnnn.  Not again.  Okay, I'm up.  I'll get on to fixing it and we'll go get you a new battery."

"No need to hurry on my account.  Daria's home for the summer anyway and is coming over in a bit to get me a new battery.  Try to look a little more presentable than working on the car in your underwear this time."

Trent sat up in bed, covers ever so respectfully placed to keep this a family story.  "Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I hear you.  Hey, if Daria's coming over to take you to get a battery, why'd you wake me up?"

Jane looked at her brother.  "She's coming over to help me get my car up and running.  Your car's rusting an agonizing death but that doesn't mean you can borrow mine later to get to the club.  You forget about that new responsibility line you swore you were working on the other day?"

That got him.  "No, I remember.  I'll get started on it after a certain pesky sister gets out so I can get dressed."

Jane left with a grin.  She did leave the door open.  Trent had to get up in order to slam it shut.  Or, it would have slammed if it hadn't encountered debris littering the floor during its trajectory.

Later, Trent, sporting his work clothes which consisted of some scruffy jeans with a hole in the knee and a not-too-clean t-shirt, jacked up his beast and crawled under it to get a better idea of what problems he now had to fix.  He heard another car pull up after draining the oil and there was no doubt who the boots belonged to.

"Hey, Daria," he said from under the car.

"Hey, Trent's car.  Since when did you come alive?"

"Since I had to allow Trent to climb under me and fix my oil pan."  Trent edged his head out from under the engine and smiled at Daria.  "Good to see you even if it is at this ungodly hour."

"It's morning," she replied with her poker face.

"So that's what it's called.  I've been trying to remember." Trent crawled the rest of the way out from underneath the car.

She smiled subtly.  "So what's the problem with your beast now?"

Trent shrugged.  "Ahhh, I need to get a new plug for my oil pan.  It's not too hard, but takes a little time.  Hey, how'd your first year of college life go?"

"Okay, I guess."

"But…?" Trent prompted.

"What makes you think there's a "but" coming?" Daria eyed him suspiciously.

"I could sense it, man."

"You could, could you?"

Trent smiled.  "Nah.  I really just listened to your voice and heard a "but" coming."

"That could mean anything.  Maybe I had a bean burrito for breakfast."

"Mmmm, burrito for breakfast.  Only, why are your avoiding answering the "but" question so much?"

Daria smiled.  "Okay.  Fair enough.  I guess it wasn't as hard as I expected it to be."

"It wasn't?" Trent asked, surprised.

"Not really.  I felt that I was smarter than some of my teachers.  In fact, the hardest part of the year came when I broke up with Tom a couple months after graduating from Lawndale High."

"Hey, that's right.  I guess I can't say you're the coolest high schooler anymore."

"Huh?"

"You're not in high school anymore," Trent explained.  "Now you're just the coolest person I know."

Trent noticed Daria blush slightly at that and try to hide a smile.  He'd always liked it when she tried to hide her smile.  It showed as a flashing crack in her Take No Prisoner emotional armor.  Or something like that.  He didn't really give it a whole lot of thought – he just liked it when she smiled.

"So what have you been doing since I left for college last year?" Daria asked.

"Nothing much," Trent replied honestly.  "Same as before.  Only worse."

"Worse?  How?"

Crap, he thought.  He hadn't meant to say that.  Nothing he could do about it now.  "Ahh, I feel that my life sort of went downhill after you and Janey left Lawndale.  I'd go on stage and there just wouldn't be that rush, you know?  I'd go through the motions but that was about it.  I didn't get that "feel" of driving home the music.  Not until Janey called and said she was coming home for the summer."

"Trent…" Daria started.

He shrugged his shoulder and gave her a goofy grin.  "Yeah, I know.  I can't plan my life around her.  Anymore than I can keep living in this house."

"Why can't you keep living in the house?"

"My parents are putting it up for sale.  Got a note from them a couple weeks ago."

Daria was shocked.  "Does Jane know about this?"

"Not yet.  They said not to mention it as they'd tell her themselves when they got home for Memorial Day."

"Trent, Memorial Day…"

"Yeah, I know.  It was a month ago.  Something must've come up for them.  I'm going to let Janey know myself."

"You know, if something came up with them now, maybe you could keep living here since something seems to always come up with them," Daria suggested helpfully.

Trent looked at her, thinking about it.  A few seconds later, he replied, "Nah.  Time to move on.  Time to go.  Time to spread my wings."

"You're joining up with Paul McCartney?"

Trent grinned at the jab and changed the subject.  "So are you doing things with your family today?"

"Define 'family'," Daria returned.

"I take that as a no?"

"No, really.  Define a family.  You see, I believe a person has two families in life – those they're born in and stuck with, and the ones they make for themselves.  And as corny as this sounds, you and Jane fall in the family cluster I've made for myself.  So to answer your question, yes, I'm doing something.  I'm going to the parts store as soon as Jane manages to get herself out here."

Trent gave a relaxed grin.  "Cool.  But how about tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"Yeah.  You and Janey doing anything tonight?"

Daria gave this some thought.  "I guess we could stick around here and tear up some bad movies."

"Or some good movies."  Trent looked under the car and noticed the oil had long since stopped dripping.  He got back down on the ground and wiggled back under the car.

"Or some good movies.  God, I'm in a rut, aren't I?"

"Can you hand me that crescent wrench?"

Daria handed him the tool.  "I am, aren't I?"

"Define rut," Trent joked.

"Forget it.  You're not getting me to do your dirty work."

"How about you and Janey coming to our gig tonight?"

"Well, it certainly saves me the effort of telling  you what a rut is.  Okay, I'll come.  Can't vouch for Jane, though."

"Cool."

"Vouch for me, what?" Jane asked, coming out of the house.

"Going to Trent's show tonight."

"Sure, I'll go.  Saves me the effort of telling you what a rut is."

"You were listening," Daria accused.

Jane grinned.  "Hello!  And how long have you known me?"

"Too long for you to simply vanish without people asking me questions like where I hid your body."

"Details, details.  C'mon, let's go.  You gonna be here when we get back, Trent?"

"Nah.  I have to go to the Zon early and renegotiate the band's contract."

"Make sure you get paid in American dollars this time," she reminded.

"Sure, sure, Janey.  But who would have thought Peso's would have been worth so little."

"Anyone who's been to Mexico?" Daria put in as she and Jane headed for her car.

Trent grinned at the barb and went back to working on his car as they loaded up and took off.  Daria had a point.  She always did, if you listened closely enough.  She was right, someone who had been to Mexico would have known how worthless Peso's were.  He should have known.  He'd met Penny six months ago in Honduras but hadn't paid any attention to anything.  Not like he should have.  And he'd been burned because of it.  

That wasn't going to happen again.

*************

He knew it was an odd sensation, but he couldn't help but go over it again and again in his head.  During the day he was hidden.  He could come and go as he pleased without anyone knowing differently, but he was still hidden by design.  Ah, but when night came along, he really opened up.  Not the kind of opening up that landed you a wife and 2.5 kids in the suburbs along with 3 mortgages and two mini vans, but the best kind of opening up there was – the kind where he didn't have to please anyone but himself.

He considered himself a hunter.  He saw the world as his prey.  He wasn't at the very top of the food chain, he knew, and there were always others waiting to take him down and chew on his neck until his legs quit twitching and his eyes glazed over.  But he knew he was clever.  He'd gotten this far without any problems and at every turn, the authorities were baffled.

And that pleased him even more.  He knew it, and still enjoyed it.  He knew a lot of things about himself.  He knew it was only a matter of time before he got old and careless, and when that happened, the world would go away for him.  But until then, he had his hobby and his hunting.

He sighted his prey once again.  There she was, he noted out of the corner of his eye while sitting and drinking some coffee in his vehicle, acting as if he were more interested in reading the paper in his hands than in her pretty, innocent face.  He had marked her the previous week and made it his obligation to study her.  It was necessary for the game after all, he gloated to himself, knowing that she would soon be his.  There she was, coming back to her home, to her _family.  He sneered and gave little thought to her family.  He didn't care about them at all.  They might even be better off without her, he rationalized._

He saw her leave her car and go up the walkway to the house.  He knew his patience, preparation and skill would eventually be rewarded.  Nine other girls had been taken without a trace.

Looking around the car he examined the back seat again. The hidden compartment under it was invisible.  His associates had suggested it and it worked beautifully.  The circuitous channels that they communicated through were all agog at his latest proposal.  As well they should be, he smirked.  He was an artist and there was his canvas, oblivious to her danger.  Her big glasses and modest outfit made his mouth water.  She was perfect.

This was a big step for him, he knew.  There were more risks, but also more rewards.  He had long tired of little girls.  They were used up far to quickly.  The growing horror and terrible knowledge that lead up to the look of ultimate betrayal at the moment of termination was what the video club paid to see.  He needed a perfect virgin sacrifice, old enough to last through the ordeal and understand her degradation yet still innocent enough to appease the dark longings of this peculiar circle.  

Well, more like _his peculiar circle._

He glanced at his watch and noted the time.  He had errands to perform which, left undone, might bring this hunting trip to a brief and unspectacular end.  He knew where she was.  He knew she was in for the night like all the previous nights.  He'd be back.

And she'd be there.

*************

At the Zon, Trent helped the band unload the gear from the Tank.  He was amazed that the van still ran and knew it was only a matter of time before even creative help in keeping it going wouldn't be enough.  Fortunately, the increase he'd gotten out of the club's manager ought to help.  Of course, it would take a few months before it could help enough, but he had to start somewhere.

Night had finally showed up and so did a crowd.  He'd told Jesse, Nick and Max about the raise they were getting and they were pumped, feeling that this could be the year things took off.  Or the year that Nick's kid quit wearing diapers.  Either way, Trent knew something was in the air.

They started playing.  Trent started singing.  That night, he played the best he had in years.

*************

Mr. Maimer, as he liked to call himself, watched as one of his clients drove off from the convenience store.  He stood next to his car, thinking it wasn't such a good idea to meet in a location like this, but the chances of the hicks in this town even suspecting they were there were practically nil.  Besides, he'd already gone in and bought some coffee earlier and met the clerk.  He was a louse and in his own way, riding the same mental waves as himself when he was younger.  He could see it in his eyes.

He had one more person to meet before the night's festivities could begin, not that he was complaining.  Just knowing that he was getting better at multitasking.  If only his guidance counselor could see him now.  Oh wait, she had.  Or rather, one of her daughters had and that was close enough for him.

He needed to go and collect his star for the next performance.  He mentally kicked himself for not having a contingency plan in place.  After all, not just anyone would do.  It had to be someone who others wanted to protect.  She needed that air of innocence.  His next contact wasn't due for another four hours so all he needed to do now was cruise the neighborhoods for all the good it would do.  He shrugged off the negative thinking.  Maybe he'd find someone else if he couldn't get his start.

But then he realized that fate sometimes worked his way.  Actually, it worked his way more often than not.  But this time, when opportunity knocked, he threw open the door and saw it for what it was.  His star had just driven into the parking lot and pulled up to the convenience store a few car slots over from him.  

He looked around.  He didn't like the lights the store cast but there wasn't anything else on around.  No other stores, and the street wasn't that well traveled.  He knew he'd have the time.  He didn't like the looks the clerk gave her while she wasn't looking – no!  She was mine, he thought angrily.

But she was there!  She was perfect.  It was a sign.  And he didn't go against signs.  Not when they were right so often.  Inside the store, she went down the candy isle he noticed.  Just like a little girl.

He opened the driver's door and popped the hood of his car, making sure to unlock the other doors in the process.  He grabbed a flashlight and went to the engine, keeping an eye on her.  She bought gum.  It was Juicy Fruit!  His favorite.  If this wasn't a sign, he didn't know what was.

She was humming as she came out the store.  He noted that the clerk went back to reading his Playboy.

It was now or never!

"Excuse me, miss?  Do you have a moment?"

"Hmm?" Daria replied, looking up.  "Sorry, didn't see you there."

Mr. Maimer smiled reassuringly.  "No problem.  If you don't mind, I've got some car troubles…"

Daria said, "You must have me confused with someone who can actually work on a car, mister."

He flashed her an embarrassed look, meaning to lower her guard.  "I only need you to hold this flashlight for a second while I look at my car's distributor cap."  He cleared his throat, letting his embarrassed look deepen.  "I think that it might be the wrong cap.  It keeps popping loose, ever since I changed it myself."

Daria hesitated but then agreed.  He looked harmless enough and it was the sort of stupid thing that Jake might do.  "Um, okay I guess."

Daria went over to his car and held the flashlight on the car's engine.  

"Shine it right here, and thanks a million."  Mr. Maimer leaned into the engine and peered carefully at a bundle of wiring.  After a few moments, he said, "Oh, that's right."

"What?" Daria asked, wondering how long a 'second' was. She had things to do.

Mr. Maimer took a quick look around.  "This car has electronic fuel injectors."

"What's that mean?" she asked, frowning.

Mr. Maimer rose from under the hood and replied, "It means it **_has no distributor cap."  He then zapped her in the neck with his stun gun that he'd concealed in the air filter box._**

Daria didn't see the zapper even as he applied it.

Daria slumped into his arms and he quickly lugged her to his passenger door.  He opened it, moved the front seat forward and threw her into the back seat, still unconscious.  

He looked to the store to see if he'd been spotted.  He hadn't as the clerk continued to read the interesting articles found only in Playboy.

She had dropped nervelessly and landed face first, twitching and grunting.  He grinned at the sight, mocking her by grunting along with her.  Then he cursed as he noticed that she had bloodied her nose and marred herself when she fell.  He'd wanted her in prime condition, not already bloodied.  Well, as the old saying went, beggars couldn't be choosers. 

He touched the arm controls in the back and she slid through the crease of the back seat and back rest as he rolled her into the trunk.  The springs on the back rest came back to their original position.

He closed the door, went around to the front and closed the hood.  He then noticed and picked up her car keys from the ground where she'd dropped them and got in to the driver's seat.  He drove off normally from the lot.  The clerk continued to ogle the centerfold, still oblivious to the outside world.

A few minutes later, on a deserted street with its light busted, he took his time, carefully sedating her, restraining her and securing her in the compartment behind the seat.  He took a long look around, saw no one, and drove away, content.

Folded into the compartment Daria, confused and terrified, moaned and struggled weakly as the stun wore off. It was futile.  She soon lapsed into unconsciousness as the sedative took hold. 

*************

Someone came in, was the first thing that Trent thought as he woke.  The phone wasn't quacking, the lights weren't on and the person wasn't making too much noise.  He gathered all that as he broke free of the sand in his eyes and looked over at the person sitting on his bed.

"Janey?" he asked, confused as to why she hadn't forcibly woken him up which she seemed to enjoy doing.

"She's gone, Trent," Jane replied, a haunted tone in her voice.  Trent wasn't so deaf from playing all these years that he couldn't pick up on that.

"Who's gone?" he asked, coming fully awake.

"Daria," Jane's lower lip trembled.

"Talk to me," Trent instructed, getting out of bed and putting his clothes on.

"I went over to Daria's house this morning to see why she never showed up at the Zon last night," Jane started.

Trent had wondered about that last night but figured something else must've come up.  He hadn't been too worried about it, figuring that she and Jane must've been catching up on old times.  Only, now that he thought about it, Jane was there for a little while before disappearing.

Jane continued.  "I went over to talk to her but ended up talking to Mrs. Morgendorffer.  That's when she called the police.  From what I gathered, she claimed that Daria never came home and that Quinn found her car at a convenience store late last night with Daria nowhere in sight.  She said that Daria's room was empty and she doesn't know where she is.  Oh, Trent, I'm scared.  This isn't like Daria, you know that."

"What did the police say?" Trent asked, thinking.

"They eventually showed up but said they couldn't do anything since she's legally an adult, that they have to wait 48 hours before starting a search.  Trent, we've got to do something.  She's my best friend."

"We'll do something," Trent answered with grim determination.

*************

Trent, Jane and an awakened Jesse (who had crashed on the sofa) headed for the Morgendorffer's and talked with Daria's parents.  At first they had thought Daria had had some car troubles and simply called Jane and then stayed at her house all night.  But when Jane came by earlier that morning to check on Daria, that set the panic off in Mrs. Morgendorffer's head and she called the police.  Trent tried asking some questions but was gently put off by her ringing cell phone.

Mr. Morgendorffer wasn't any help at all.  He was a basket case ranting and raving at anyone who listened, which turned out being Jesse.  Trent wasn't worried about that since Jesse liked to play in front of speakers and couldn't hear much of what Daria's dad was saying anyway.

Jane was a little more helpful in corning Daria's sister, Quirky or Quacky or Quinn or something like that.  She at least managed to tell them where Daria's car had been found.  Quinn knew there hadn't been any car trouble as she'd taken Daria's spare keys and started it right up this morning and drove it home.  She was worried and it showed – she wasn't wearing any makeup as Jane pointed out.

The Morgendorffer's had the general consensus that this was a kidnapping for ransom and therefore weren't leaving their house in case the kidnapper called.  The police were on the track that Daria had simply gone off on a long weekend with an old boyfriend and would be back within the 48 hours and they wouldn't have to waste any more time looking into it.

Jane knew better as the only old boyfriend Daria had had was currently in Europe with his family.  Trent had a bad feeling about this that he just couldn't slake.  He needed more information and together with Jane and a rescued Jesse, they headed for the convenience store.

*************

Trent drove a quiet Jane and Jesse to the convenience store where Daria's car was found.  It was an older store, Trent noted, but then again, what wasn't an older store in Lawndale anymore.  A small parking lot existed in the front and on one of its sides.  Residential houses were nearby and if someone blinked, they'd miss the store as it blended in with the neighborhood.  The one street light overlooking the front of the store was broken.

They went in. The store hadn't kept up with regular maintenance and it showed.  Tiles were cracked, paint peeling, water stains on the ceiling.  The inside reminded Trent of any other store he'd ever stopped at over the years.  Plenty of junk food, sugary drinks, and an asshole behind the counter waiting for them to leave so he could get back to reading a Playboy magazine.

Trent went directly to the counter, and the 40-ish, greasy haired man standing behind it with the stained uniform of one too many slurpee's.

"You want something?" asked the clerk, eyeing the potential customers with disdain.

"Yeah," Trent answered.  "You know who was working here last night?"

"I was.  Why?"

"Do you remember seeing this girl?" he asked, showing the clerk a picture of Daria that Jane had given him.

"Hey, look, pal.  Some cops came around earlier and asked some questions.  You want answers, talk to them.  I'm busy.  So if you aren't going to buy anything, take a hike."  The clerk went back to reading the Playboy he'd stashed under the counter.

Trent turned around and thought.  He knew he was worried.  His vision came in pulses of color – red – really red – back to yellow – back to clear.  Trent knew he wanted to hurt the thing that would hurt his friend.

Jesse noticed Trent's gaze and recognized it for what it was.  "Hey, dud," Jesse said.  "Calm down.  We'll find Daria, don't worry."

Trent began to calm.  "I know.  I just hope it'll be in time.  I gotta use the bathroom.  Be right back."

Trent went to the bathroom and put water on his face to further cool off.  He didn't want to get that angry.  Not just yet.  Toweling off, he looked around at the decay in the bathroom.  Everything was yellowish.  The baseboards, walls, the ceiling… except in the corner which was black.  Looking closer, Trent noticed it was black …and shiny.

Trent walked out of the bathroom with a grim determination.  He went back to the counter.  No other customers were in the store.  He looked the clerk in the eye.  "You have cameras mounted in and around the store for security," he said.

"Yeah.  But they don't work.  They're just for show.  Told the cops the same.  VCR they were hooked up to has been broken for over a year."

"The owner know they're broken?" Trent asked.

"I am the owner.  Now if you ain't buying anything get out."

"You ever have any of your fingers broken?" Trent asked without humor.

"Huh?  No, why?"

Trent grabbed him by the throat with his left hand and his collar by his right hand and pulled him over the counter.  Trent wasn't very muscular and the exertion showed on him, but he didn't care.  "Because I found a camera in the john and I figure that a peeping freak like you would probably have other VCRs ready to take the place of a broken one.  And if you don't produce a tape from last night then I'm going to have my friend Jesse here break one finger after another until you do produce a tape.

"And then I'm going to get very angry and probably break the rest of the bone in your body, starting with your neck.  You got that?"

Jane was astonished at Trent's outburst.  Jesse wasn't so amazed as he'd seen it once before, when they were on the road and had to deal with a lying bar owner trying to weasel his way out of a contract.

Shaking, the clerk said, "Look, I don't want to get involved.  That's why I lied to the police.  I've got a tape.  It cycles every 18 hours so I don't think it's been recorded over yet."

Within minutes Trent had one of the four tapes the clerk used every day to record things around the store.  Tight lipped, Trent said, "If this is a fake… I'll be back."

At home, Trent put the tape into the VCR and began playing it.  Every few seconds, the camera footage flipped from one camera to another.  There were six total camera shots – two outside the store, three inside watching the merchandise and the counter, and one in the bathroom.  It took Trent about 15 minutes of zipping the tape forward with the remote before he found what he wanted.  Jane, Jesse and he all sat on the sofa and watched the soundless images.  What Trent didn't see on the tape as the images switched, he put together in his mind.

A car pulled into the lot.  The tape was in black and white and there was no telling what color it was.  The driver got out, went into the store, bought something, exited and sat in the car.  The light was fairly bad as the image was illuminated by the interior store lights only.  Soon enough, another car showed up.  Two big, beefy guys got out, looked around, expecting trouble.  The first driver, who was bald, got out and went to the car.  A window rolled down and someone in the car handed baldy an envelop.  The only image Trent caught of the person in the second car was of his Rolex.  The window rolled up, the big thugs got back in the car and it left the parking lot.

About then is when Daria's car drove up into the parking lot.  She got out and went inside.  The bald guy went back to his car, popped the hood and opened it.  Daria came back out while he is checking something in the engine.  She stopped and came over to his car.  Something happened and the guy closed the passenger door, then his hood, got in his car and drove off.  Daria's car was still in the parking lot with no Daria in sight.

Trent knew he had the kidnapper.  The only problem was, he didn't have that great of an image of him.  All he knew for sure was that he was bald, in good shape, and drove a large two-door car.

*************

"Look, man, I'm telling you my friend was kidnapped!  Can't you get that through your head?!" Trent snapped at the desk sergeant.

"And I'm telling you, sir, we can't do anything until after 48 hours," the desk sergeant controlled his reply.

"Look, there's got to be someone who can help us with this," Jane complained, again.

"We've gone over this," the sergeant started.

"I know, but we know she was kidnapped, dude!" Jesse said.

Trent listened as the arguments began their third trip around the duty sergeant.  He knew the sergeant didn't believe them but hoped the continued persistence paid off.  Trent did notice one thing odd about the police station today than any of the times he was here in the past – there were a lot of people in there who weren't wearing uniforms.  A lot more than normal.  He smelled Fed.

Resigned to the fact that these three kids weren't going to leave, the desk sergeant did what he normally did in cases like this.  He passed the buck by calling someone else down.  A few minutes later, a young man not in a police uniform, and definitely far younger than the sergeant, walked down a corridor and up to the front desk.

"What's up, Carl?" the non-uniformed man asked.

"Missing person.  They'll explain," he said, indicating Jane, Trent and Jesse.

"I'm detective Myers.  Can I help you?"

Jane launched into the same narrative she'd used with the desk sergeant and the detective seemed genuinely interested.  Especially when Jesse brought up the bit they had proof of the kidnapping.  He wasn't the detective assigned to the case, he informed them, but would probably be assigned once the required 48 hours came.

Detective Myers took Jane, Jesse and Trent into another room and stuck the tape into the VCR.  Trent had rewound the tape to where the kidnapping took place.  They all viewed the tape again.  

Once the action finished, Detective Myers said, "I'm sorry, but the tape shows nothing.  Sure, there was some guy at the convenience store, but it didn't show him taking her.  In fact, knowing the Morgendorffer parents like we do, it's the consensus around here that we think she probably ran off with some guy, probably an old boyfriend.  And technically, we still can't do anything yet."

He opened the door and began to usher a shocked Jane out.  Trent didn't even bother to grab the tape as he rushed to catch up to Jane.  "Look, man," Trent yelled.  "Some bald-headed perv took Daria – I know it!  So why the hell don't you cops do something about it?!"

"Are hands are tied for another 26 hours, Mr. Lane," Detective Myers informed him.  "And right now we have our hands full with another case.  End of discussion."

"I'm gonna crucify you if anything happens to Daria because you were screwing around, cop."  With a grim determination plastered on his face along with lips pressed tightly shut, Trent stormed out with a numb Jane and a dazed Jesse in tow.

Unknown to Trent, Jane or Jesse, a Fed watched them with mounting interest.

*************

Frustrated, the last thing Trent wanted to do was spend any more time at home, pacing and feeling useless.  It didn't matter that he still felt useless since he had no idea of how to find his friend, he just didn't want to stay home any longer.  As night fell, Trent and Jesse headed for the Zon.  He could at least work out some frustration on stage.

Several hours flew by and Trent showed no signs of stopping.  Neither did Jesse, but Nick and Max were practically worn out as they hadn't taken any breaks.  Trent ignored them as he studied a group of suits that had walked in about a half hour earlier.  He had seen them before.

They were on the tape at the convenience store.  In fact, the best dressed jerk of the three men at the bar was the one who had given the kidnapper an envelop.  He was probably responsible for Daria's kidnapping.  But why?  Trent watched them and was pretty sure ten minutes after they showed up, a drug buy went down.

Trent wasn't sure if Jesse had recognized them but he didn't have any more time to figure out how to get to them as the well dressed trio finished their drinks and headed for the side exit.  The only good news for that was it brought them a little closer to the stage.  Most of the club was either sitting, drinking, sitting and drinking, or just plain out of it.  A few were dancing wildly around the stage which gave Trent an idea.

As the well dressed trio came closest to the stage, Trent jumped the couple feet to the floor and ran up to them, smashing his guitar over the head of the lead bodyguard and bringing him down.  Trent spun and looked at the well dressed smack pusher.  The second bodyguard, following Mr. Well Dressed decided the best thing for Trent was a good beating.

Fortunately Jesse, always ready for a good fight, showed up and smashed his bass guitar over a thick bullet-necked skull the same as Trent.  The second bodyguard went down hard.

Trent advanced on Mr. Well Dressed who in turn reached into his pocket and whipped out a gun.  Trent was faster with the pitcher of beer he confiscated from a small table and used the pitcher as a sapper and smashed it over the pusher's head.  Gun in hand, Mr. Well Dressed went down.  Trent reached down and took the gun away, putting it in his pants pocket.

Sensing something was amiss, the crowd began to look around in confusion.  Many began to understand that the music had stopped.  It wasn't as if they could hear at that point having spent way too much time in a small club with way too much loud music coming their way – it was more that the rest of the crowd had stopped gyrating with the music, or so they hoped.

Trent, not wanting to lose momentum, yelled, "Cops!  Cops!  Everybody run for it!  It's a raid by the cops!  It's a big drug bust!  Everybody's going down!  Get out of here while you can!"

The few that could still hear knew what to do.  Being underage and in possession of fake ID's, they ran like hell with panic written all over their faces.  It was instant pandemonium as the rest of the crowd followed suit in a sort of stampede, sensing that something was definitely wrong which usually meant the police were involved somehow.

"Jesus, Trent!  What the fuck are you doing?"  Jesse was staring stupidly at the bleeding, unconscious bodyguards.  The one that Trent had hit looked like he had a fractured skull.  Same as the one Jesse took out.

Trent looked at Jesse, his face blank and very cold.  "He knows who took Daria.  I saw him on the video.  I'm going to get him to tell me what he knows, but I need to get him out of here first."

"Oh."  Jesse quickly pulled the weakly twitching smack dealer's jacket up over his head so that he couldn't move his arms, then kicked him until he quit moaning.  "You go ahead and open the Tank's door." 

"Thanks, brother."  Trent looked at an aghast Max.  "Give me your keys, right now."

"H-h-here, man, take them!"  Max was a lover, not a fighter.

"I can't be involved in this shit, Trent, I got a kid to feed."  Nick wasn't scared, he just had his own priorities.

Trent had no problem with either of them.  This was his business, not theirs.  He didn't resent them for not joining in.  "It's okay."  He tossed Max his car keys. "You guys pack up and we'll see you later."  Trent nodded at Jesse and set out.  

Jesse grabbed the unconscious smack-pusher by his ponytail, dragging him out to the Tank after Trent.  The bodyguards were left behind.  Trent didn't give any thought to the deal he'd signed only yesterday to keep the band going as he tied the creep up with some spare rope and duct taped his eyes and mouth.

In the now-deserted club, Nick and Max rapidly packed up.  On the way out they rolled both bodyguards and Max stole the pusher's BMW.

As Trent took off, another car followed, smoke swirling around the interior where a very interested man had watched the night' festivities.

A half hour later as pretty-boy started to wake while laying on his back on the floor of the Tank, Trent decided to help things along by slapping his cheeks a bit.  "Wake up, creep," Trent ordered.

"Uuuhhhh, wha…?" he managed, looking around.

"I've got some questions for you, creep.  Answer them and I'll let you go.  Otherwise…" Trent didn't elaborate.

"Go to hell," replied pretty-boy.  "I ain't telling you crackers anything."

Trent weighed less than pretty-boy so he quickly took a seat on pretty-boy's chest.  "I want you to tell me who the rat bastard is who snatched Daria.  Then I want to know why and I want to know where she is now."

"I don't know who you're talking about, you dumb cracker!" he managed even though Trent sat on his chest.

Trent pulled out a picture of Daria and put it in front of pretty-boy's face.  "Daria," Trent said.

"Who the hell is Daria?"

"Family.  So why did you have her kidnapped?"

"I didn't have anyone kidnapped.  Are you crazy or what?"

Trent smacked him hard enough to draw a trickle of blood from a split lip.  He got visibly meaner as pretty-boy watched.  "Listen up, dirt bag.  You're involved, you got that?  You were there.  You met with your sick-o friend at the Gas-R-Us last night.  You gave him an envelope.  You leave.  A few minutes later Daria shows up.  Sick-o grabs Daria and leaves."

Trent moved so the creep could see the meanness in his eyes.  "So you tell me where she is, man, or so help me I'll skin you here alive.  You got that?"

Slightly nervous, Jerk-Boy said, "I don't know much about that guy.  My boss simply told me to meet him at that location on that evening."

"Wrong answer, dirt bag!" Trent yelled, smacking him across the cheek.  "You knew him well enough to shake hands and smile when you saw him."

"I don't know who he is," protested pretty-boy.

"I think you do," Trent replied calmly, his eyes glinting black and cruel.  He began working the dealer over with a few well placed smacks to the head.  "Jesse, get me the pliers, okay?"

"Sure," Jesse replied, a little queasy with what Trent was doing and nervous with what he figured was going to happen next.  Trent didn't show his dark side very often, but when he did, it was always very bad news for someone. 

"Pliers?" asked pretty-boy.

"I'm going to torture you until you tell me everything that I want to know."  Trent was matter of fact.  "If you don't tell me, I'll torture you to death and then go catch your bodyguards for round two."  

Jesse sat stolidly for a second and then dug out the pliers.  "What will we do with the bodies?"

Trent took the pliers, giving his friend a grateful nod.  "I don't know. Maybe just throw them out into the woods.  It's not like the dick-head cops in this town would find them anyway." 

Jesse shook his head. "If we kill them, I want them gone without a trace, dude.  I don't want anything coming back on us.  How about we take them out to the big tire-pile out on route six, dump gas on it and burn the bodies.  I heard that a tire fire can get up to six thousand degrees."

"Cool."  Trent turned his attention back to the horror-stricken drug dealer, taking the pliers from Jesse and rolling the creep over to get to his hands.  "Talk now or I'll cripple you."

Pretty-boy quickly said, "Shit!  Don't!  Fuck him, his name's Bill Luden."

Trent rolled him back.  "Where can I find him?"

"Don't know.  I get calls telling me where to meet him when he checks in.  Otherwise, no one knows anything on him."

Trent wasn't buying it.  "If you creeps don't know a thing about him, then how do you know you can trust him?"

"Yeah, how do you know he's not a snitch, man?" Jesse asked.

Pretty-boy spat out a little blood along with a tooth.  "He has your friend, right?  Let's just say it's not the first time he's been known to take someone's friend."

Trent blinked several times as his hands clenched and unclenched.  Finally, "You don't know how close you came to me killing you, you piece of crap.  Jesse, knock him out."

Jesse rolled pretty-boy over, then whacked him with one of the spare microphones.  Rolling him back, Jesse then re-taped his eyes and mouth shut.  He then whacked pretty-boy a second time over the noggin', figuring what the heck.

Trent and Jesse each took a grab on the shoulder and pulled pretty-boy to the rear of the Tank.  Trent opened the back door and immediately saw someone standing there, smoking a cigarette.  Hands in his light jacket pockets, the slightly taller than Trent man asked, "You boys need any help dragging that unconscious fella to the woods before you dump him?"

Trent's eyes narrowed but he didn't take any action.  He didn't sense any mistrust from the smoker.  "No, we can manage.  Y'know, you look kind of familiar."  Then it hit him.  The police station.  "You here to arrest us, man?"

"For starting a fight, inciting a riot, kidnapping a creep, and beating the hell out of him?  No.  Why should I?  Name's Scott Winters.  I saw you at the police station earlier today."

"You're not a cop, at least not from Lawndale.  You a Fed?" Trent asked, dragging pretty-boy out of the Tank and dropping him on the shoulder of the road.

"You've got good eyes, son.  Yeah, I'm with the FBI.  We're here hoping to find Paul Lassiter's connection…"

"Who?" Jesse asked.

"He'd be the guy you two just worked over.  He's just a connection man.  We're trying to find the major players in a drug line from Texas to Michigan along with every other state and major city in between.  The problem here is that we don't have any case yet other than him having possession.  We haven't found his connection man or how the deliveries are made."

"That's not at all interesting nor do I give a damn, man," Trent said smartly.  "All I care about is just finding Daria."

"Then I think we can help each other out as I'm pretty sure the delivery man is none other than your kidnapper."

"Jerk-boy here said his name's Bill Luden," supplied Jesse.

Scott replied, "It's an alias.  We got that tip last year and ran it to a cold end.  All we really know is that he likes to call himself Mr. Maimer.  Look, the guy we're both looking for is extremely slippery.  We haven't been able to find him at all in the last few years but if we find him now, the FBI can track him back to the source and stop deliveries."

"What makes you so sure the guy you're looking for is the same one I need to find?" Trent asked.

Agent Winters indicated unconscious pretty-boy.  "Two reasons.  I overheard some of your interrogation.  Paul said the person who does the deliveries can be trusted as he's snatched other people before.  Before getting assigned to this distribution case, I worked on nailing this creep.  I know the family of one of the people this nut case kidnapped.  And the second reason – I saw the tape you left at the police station earlier today.  The probable kidnapping matches the M. O. for this perp.  I want him just as bad as you do, son.  That's why I'm taking a big chance to help you two."

"What big chance helping us, man?  We're here to help you solve this case," Trent pointed out.

"Yes and no.  I use any help from you to solve the drug case and you get taken in for kidnapping that sleaze.  Then I have to explain why I didn't get involved earlier and the whole case can be thrown out by one of his slick lawyers."

"Fine, dude," replied Jesse.  "So what can you tell us about the real kidnapper?"

"Can you bring in other Feds to help us find her?" asked Trent with a pleading tone to his voice.

"We're on our own for the time being," Agent Winters replied.  "Upstairs won't go in for saving one person if they can find and stop a drug shipment instead."

"What?" Trent looked at him sharply, about ready to ask more.

"And before you ask, I'll tell you why in one word.  Publicity.  Now as for what I can tell you about this nutcase, here's how we're going to handle it.  You two keep it quiet between us.  Here's my card.  Give me a call on my cell around 6am and I'll go over what I can on the creep's background we've put together.  As for what to expect out of this creep, go to this Eyecandy.net web address," he wrote the address on the back of his card, "and enter in this encryption password to access it.  I'm letting you know, this isn't easy stuff to watch.  I'll help you out as much as I can in the morning.  Now why don't you two give me a hand in dragging this guy into my car.  I need to get him to the hospital."

Trent reached down to lift pretty-boy.  "I'd just as soon as leave him on the road."

"So would I," agreed Agent Winters, "but if I rescue him, this might give me the in I need to access their mob.  I do that, I might get a lead on this sick bastard."

Trent and Jesse dragged the unconscious dope pusher to Agent Winters rental, putting him in the front seat.

Jesse made for the van's driver chair, got in and started it up.  As Trent slid into the Tank's passenger seat he noticed Agent Winters had removed his Fed clothes and was in the process of putting on preppie clothes he'd stashed in his trunk, changing his appearance in order to facilitate the illusion he rescued him from the side of the road.  As Jesse drove off, Trent wondered if working with a Fed was a good idea.

*************

Daria woke to a surreal world.  No, it was real, she reminded herself.  She tried to move but her arms was tied behind her back.  She tried to talk but found that difficult with the gag in her mouth.  She took in what information she could.

She was in a dark room.  It smelled damp and musty.  She knew she was in an old house.  She heard creaks coming towards her.  A door opened and light rushed in to fill the void, causing her to blink the sharp pins out of her iris.

Blinking, she saw a hand attached to the rest of a bald guy reach down and grab her coat.  He pulled and she came off the floor.

Daria struggled, trying to get her hands to work.  They didn't.  She didn't bother crying or sobbing as it never occurred to her to try that tactic.  She put her thinking on evade and escape, not useless hysterics.

"Good, good," baldy suggested, grinning.  "Struggle all you want.  It makes it more fun that way."

She heard what he said so she stopped struggling and stood up straight.  He kept his meat hook on her arm but she looked him straight in the eye.  Her hands were beginning to tingle but were still useless bound in front of her.  She could smell the scent of duct tape over her mouth.

The bald perv took another look at her, saying, "Such a pretty thing."  She allowed it as it gave her hands time to regain sensation.

His hand never left her arm, though.  Daria realized this was not a good situation as the creep kept looking her over like a piece of beef.  There was only one thing she could do she concluded.

His eyes finished their inspection and came back to Daria's eyes.  He was happy with his selection – she'd last for two days, maybe three.  Then he noticed something …odd.  Her eyes were speaking to him.  Her eyes…

CRACK!!

Daria let loose a kick with all her leg behind in into the bald creep's knee and connected with a loud crack.  She was pretty sure it broke something as he went down to the floor but didn't stay to find out.  She took off running, still trying to get her fingers to work.

His grin wide as ever, he hobbled back to a standing position and went after her.  "Good, good," he muttered.  "First strike to you, my pretty.  Now it's my turn…"

Fade.

*************

Trent and Jesse paced Jane's room while she worked on accessing the computer site Agent Winters had given them.  It was nearly 1am.  They should have been tired but nervousness fueled them on.  Jane finally gained access and the screen came to life displaying a dull, drab room that badly needed some paint.  

"Is this real time?" Trent asked.

"It appears to be," Jane answered.  "Probably a webcam hooked up to the computer like I used to have."

"What's that on the chair?" Jesse asked of the one piece of furniture in the picture – a wooden chair probably 30 years old.  

Trent looked.  The chair had no seat cushion any more (if it ever had one) and the handles next to it had something dangling from them.  Each side was the same.  "Straps," Trent realized aloud.

The room was lit by a couple dangling light bulbs and apparently nothing else.  No window in sight – nothing.

Within minutes they see someone come into the picture.  It is a man, presumably bald, who is now wearing a former President Carter mask.  He drags a dazed Daria with him and pushes her into the chair.  Her feet are tied as are her hands.  He cuts the bonds around her wrists free with a knife.

He then strapped her into the chair.

Jane, Trent and Jesse watched in growing horror.

"Well hello there all," Carter-mask said to his web audience.  "And welcome to another session of Dr. Kill-The-Joy's secret operations!  Our contestant today is Daria.  Yes, I know a little bit more older than previous contestants but at least she'll last to the end, right?  Ha, ha, ha.  So what's on the agenda tonight?  How about some lacerations, contusions, abrasions and possibly amputations?  What's that?  We've done this before?  Well, of course we have, but now I'm interested in going for a new personal best time.  Come on in and watch me operate."

He turned his attention back to Daria and said, "This will only hurt you a lot."  He then took the knife he used to cut her bonds and cut her jacket from the left shoulder to the elbow, exposing the skin.  "So fine of skin," he grinned, then began to cut an incision around her bicep.

Daria screamed.

Trent, Jesse and Jane turned white.  Jane fled the room, unable to take it.  Jesse followed suit.  Trent watched a few minutes more before leaving – not to watch Daria bleed, but in order to memorize all characteristics of the room and of the creep who did this.

He was going to find him and make him pay.

It was a long and restless night for all three.  Trent skipped sleeping as he didn't want to see any nightmares like he'd just watched.

*************

Daria woke again.  She was still in the chair.  She knew she was fading in and out of consciousness, each time out a blessing that this sick bastard kept bringing her back from.  Daria was no fool; she'd recognized the chair and the straps instantly and knew what was coming.  She'd actually written a scene like that in her Melody Powers series years ago, and it was ironic how it came back to haunt her.  Shiftless commies.

No, wait.  They weren't to blame.  It was the sick bastard in front of her with the knife.  Did she just black out again?  "Why?" she asked aloud.

That seemed to pause him in his tracks.  Carter-mask looked down at her as she looked up at him with her red, puffy eyes.  "What do you mean, 'why'?" he returned.

"Why are you doing this?"

He stood up straight and rubbed his chin, thinking about it.  After a minute or so he looked back down at her and said, "Well, I guess I could say that it's because that's what my paying clients want to see.  Or I could say it's because I wanted to go to medical school but my parents wouldn't pay the tuition so I got bounced out of college.  But in all actuality, it's because I enjoy it."

"You're a sick bastard," Daria managed.

"Such flattery.  Now hold still, there's some red puffiness around your eye that needs to come out," he said, advancing on her.

Daria screamed as he came closer with the knife.

She blacked out a few minutes later.  Carter-mask looked down at her and knew he couldn't risk more tonight if she were to last to the conclusion tomorrow night.  "Okay, campers, that's enough for tonight.  She's still got a pulse so that means tune in tomorrow night at the same time, same channel for the exciting conclusion!"

*************

Trent listened to the last of the insane broadcast.  His mind raced while the rest of his body churned at what Daria had gone through.  He couldn't watch what had happened and could barely stand to listen to it, but he needed the information.  She was still alive.  That was what was important. 

Alive for now.  But not by this time tomorrow.

He needed to find her.  He needed information.

It wasn't the time to call the Fed, Trent knew, but he couldn't wait any longer.  He dialed the cell phone number.

"It's very early in the morning so this had better be good," came the short reply on the other end of the phone.

"Scott?  This is Trent.  We met a few hours ago…"

"I remember.  Your timing is actually pretty good.  I just got off the phone with my old partner.  The creep you beat up is still in recovery so I've got some time to talk."

"Did he find out anything?" Trent asked, hoping.

"John was able to backtrace the signal to this county so we know he's somewhere nearby.  That's his standard M. O. anyway."

"I kind of guessed," Trent replied.  "I figured he couldn't have gone too far anyway but if he's still inside the city and county limits, he needs a very isolated area so that means in the woods.  There are plenty of cabins around the outskirts of town with no one nearby."

Agent Winters said, "Try thinking of any that are run down.  He won't rent a place.  It will be a place that is deserted and isolated.  That usually means old.  Can you think of any place that fits the bill?"

"I've got a couple of ideas," Trent replied.

"Great.  Some friends of mine are already en route and will be here sometime tonight…"

"We don't have the time to wait, man.  We need to check into this now."

"Look, Trent, I know you're concerned but you're not trained to deal with someone like that."

"I'll go myself if I have to," Trent said firmly.

Silence.  Then, "Do you at least have a gun?"

"Yes."

"Give me the location of the place you're going to check out in case something happens to you as well.  I'll let my associates know.  Look, I'm being paged here at the hospital so whatever you do, just be careful.  This guy is one sick puppy who gets his kicks torturing girls.  If he catches you, I don't think he'd skip the torture scene just because you're a guy.  So be careful and shoot him if you get the chance."

"Understood.  And thanks."  Trent then gave him the address and instructions on getting to it and then hung up.  Turning, he noticed Jane and Jesse standing in the hallway, having listened to his conversation.

"Is he coming?" Jesse asked.

"No."

"Then we go it alone," Jane said.  "If we wait much longer, Daria is toast.  We all know that."

"I know, Janey.  I know.  I'll be right back."  Trent went into his parent's bedroom and opened Vince's closet where he pulled out a small box containing a handgun.  He loaded it and then pulled out the second pistol he'd lifted from the creep he'd bashed around a few hours ago.  It was bright, shiny, and fully loaded as well.  Trent then went back to his room and grabbed the switchblade off his nightstand and put it into his pocket.

Trent came down the stairs and noticed that Jane and Jesse were ready to go.  "Here, Jesse," Trent gave Jesse his father's handgun.

Jesse took it and looked at it questioningly.  He then looked at Jane and gave it to her.  Jane pocketed it without thinking, much to Jesse's relief.

Trent opened the door and headed for the Tank.

"Where are we headed?" Jane asked, climbing in to the makeshift third chair between the two front chairs.

"We're headed for Clyde Lake.  It's nearby and still has some isolated homes in the area.  I thought we'd try the Willard residence first and then go cabin hunting."

"Why there?" Jesse asked.

"It's the first place that came to mind when I spoke with Agent Winters," Trent replied, driving off.

Nearly an hour later the three got out of the van and headed up the gravel path towards the old Willard place.  It was still roughly a half kilometer away but Trent didn't want to give anyone advance notice he was coming by.  "From here we walk," Trent said.

The others said nothing as they began to walk up the wide path SUV's called a road and non-SUV's called a suspension killer.  Less than 20 minutes later they saw the house.  It looked deserted.  It was just getting light enough to see outside as the sun crept up through the trees on the horizon.

"Let's split up.  Janey, you and Jesse take the back entrance.  I'll go through the front."

Trent pulled the pistol up and began to creep up the rest of the way to the house.  Jane and Jesse skirted through the trees to get around to the back of the house.

Trent looked at the house.  It was built nearly 80 years earlier.  It was two story, originally white, and had long gone to seed.  It had a detached garage just off the front porch which he headed for.  The windows had long since been broken out of the house and the garage.  He looked inside and noticed the same car that was in the video from the convenience store.

He had them!  Heart pounding, he headed for the front door.

*************

Daria began to wake again, this time feeling very light headed.  She knew she wasn't at 100% or even 75%.  She was doing good to be at 50% tops.  This wasn't going to be easy, she knew.  She knew he was having too much of a good time to stop.

She had to find a way out of this.  But how?

"Would you let me go if I slept with you?" she asked as he retied her hands together.  She didn't have the strength to resist.

"Kind of hard to seduce a man with blood on your face, honey," he said.  "Oh, that's right, you were out.  Here, why don't you have a look and tell me if you still want to sleep with me."  He pulled a small mirror off his tool tray and held it up to her face.

Daria took one look and got sick to her stomach all over again.

The creep who had since taken off the Carter-mask watched her reaction, savoring it for all it was worth.  That was what he lived for.  The ultimate betrayal.  And here it came.

Daria looked at him with hate on her face.  "Mind if I return the favor to you?" she managed.

He chuckled.  That was a good one.  Most simply started screaming.  He was going to have to start with the slightly older ones from now on.  He finished retying her hands and lifted her up.  She didn't resist as he pulled her along, opened the closet door and dumped her to the floor.

Daria knew she was in it deep now.  He wasn't interested in girls as he was interested in pain.

But she couldn't give up.  She needed to go to his mental level if she was to survive.  She needed to find a way to crack his mental code.  

She needed to find a way to crack him over the head.  

Quietly, she began to laugh at her situation.  The absurdity of it wasn't lost on her.

*************

Trent tried the knob on the front door.  It turned in his hand and he opened the door slightly, looking through the crack.  He didn't see anything.  It was dark.  He opened the door all the way and looked around.  

Nothing.

It was deserted.

Trent listened for any noises and heard something coming from the kitchen.  Slowly, he made his way to the back of the house.  A few seconds later he saw two familiar shapes coming through an open window into the kitchen.  

Jane heard a sound and whipped around suddenly, bringing the gun up and sighting it into the hallway Trent was in.

"Easy, Janey," Trent said.  "I haven't found anyone on the main level yet."

"Is anyone here?" she asked, helping Jesse to his feet.

"Not sure.  Why don't you take the upstairs?  I'll look around the main level, Jesse, you take the basement."

They split up and Trent systematically searched the rest of the house.  There were two bedrooms on that floor along with a pantry and a dining room.  All deserted, grit-covered and apparently unused for a number of years.  Trent noticed the dust and debris hadn't been touched recently.  Several windows had cracks and holes, but were largely intact.

He was set to go upstairs when he heard Jane's blood curdling scream.

He raced out the back room, down the hall and started up the stairway the same time Jesse came up from the basement.  They made it to the second floor and noticed Jane crying in the hallway towards the back.  Trent came up, not knowing what to expect.

"She… she was here," Jane managed between sobs and some slight hyperventilation.

Trent and Jesse look in the room she was standing near and noticed that it had recently been occupied.  A chair, straps and smears of blood could be seen.

"Janey," Trent began.  "Maybe it wasn't her…"

"No, it was.  Oh, God, he's a monster."

"How can you know for sure?" Jesse asked, not wanting to go into the room.

"This was on the chair," she said, holding up a jar.

A clear liquid held the remains of a human eye.

"This is Daria's eye," Jane said and began crying again.

"Jesus," Trent said softly, not able to take his gaze off it, going white by the second.

Jesse threw up.

*************

Trent, Jesse and Jane investigated the other locations but had no success.  Nothing showed out of the ordinary, or the places were already occupied and no one had heard anything.  They saw garbage trucks making their runs, public service fixing power lines, even a furniture delivery service, but nothing unusual.  No other car similar to the one they'd already found.  Trent knew then that the car had been stolen and ditched.

They called Agent Winters to let him know what they'd found at the Willard house who said he'd run a squad up there to dust for prints but Mr. Maimer's other locations had been found and no prints were ever discovered there or on the bodies.  "I think he's changed his M. O. since the last time," was all that Trent rolled around over and over in his head.

They returned home, frustrated and exhausted about mid-morning.

"Trent, you need to sleep," Jane said as they came in the kitchen door.

"I can't sleep, Jane.  We've got to find Daria."

"You won't do her any good when you fall asleep at the wheel while looking for her," Jane replied testily.

Trent sat on the couch and looked depressed, closing his eyes to get the stinging to stop.  "He's out there.  I can feel it.  He's near, but I just can't figure it out."

"No one could before, Trent," Jesse helped.

"This is different.  I feel I know something.  I just can't place it."

"Trent, try to get some sleep.  You need it.  I'll wake you in a few hours," Jane instructed, too late.  Trent had already fallen into an exhausted sleep.

Trent fell into a deep sleep, but not a peaceful one.  Even subconsciously he couldn't shake the site of Daria's eye floating in a jar.  But his dreams when back even further.  He was back in high school.  He was on a date with a girl he knew – Lisa.  They were going into the Willard place.  That was why he'd thought of the place to begin with.  He'd been there.

Trent woke, shaking.  That's it! he realized.

He looked outside and saw that it was early evening.  There wasn't any time to wait.

"Jesse, get up.  Janey, up, up, c'mon, wake up," he instructed, shaking each of them.

"Urrmmhpphh… I'm up, I'm up," Jesse managed.

Jane struggled to a sitting position.  "What's next, Trent?  You got any ideas?"

"Yeah.  I just figured out who this guy is."

Jane's sleep evaporated as she wanted to know the score.  "Tell me."

"All the clues are there.  The car used in the snatch of Daria was stolen.  It was left at the old Willard place.  We know the sick bastard and Daria stayed there as we found… part of her there."

"Yeah, we know all that.  But where did he go after that?" Jane asked

Trent looked at his sister.  "He went back to work, Janey."

"What?  How do you know that?"

Trent paced back and forth, shuffling thoughts to match his movements, grasping one and holding on to it.  "Because he slipped up.  Think about it.  When we went to the Willard place, we were able to turn the lights on."

"You can do that in any home, man," Jesse observed.

Trent smiled.  "Not everyplace.  True, homes do have power lines connecting to them, but the Willard place was old and abandoned back in the 70's.  So long abandoned that the power had either been redirected or simply cut from the house.  I know this because years ago I went out with Terry while a senior at Lawndale.  We went to the Willard place and couldn't get any power to come on.  I didn't even notice power lines that day."

"So why does it have power now?" asked Jane.

"Because the creep needs power for his webcast."

Jesse still didn't get it.  "But how do you know this guy went back to work, man?"

"Think about it.  Winters said this guy hadn't been caught and was extremely slippery.  The Feds thought they'd had him a couple years ago on a sweep but he'd gotten away after killing victim number four.  Scott said it was as if he'd simply vanished.  He never used the same place twice and never bothered to clean up the victim.  All Winters said their profiler had given them was that he was probably a white male, late 30's to mid-40's, physically fit, and seemed to enjoy pain."

Jane grimaced.  "Yeah, and not to mention he was smart enough to set up and use a webcam to a paying audience as well as being smart enough to elude the police for the past two years."

"Right.  We know he gets his kicks by setting up a pay-per-view murder of little girls and now young women.  This indicates he's mentally unbalanced.  But we know he's intelligent.  Therefore it's logical to assume he holds down a job."

"How do you figure that?" Jane's curiosity was piqued.

"Because if killing girls was a full-time job, he would have had a lot more victims over two years."

"That still doesn't explain how you know he went to work," said Jesse.

"I'm getting to that.  I'm thinking, what if he didn't just up and disappear on the Feds but simply hid in plain sight?  Like in a public service truck?  The kind of truck that's used to bring power to an old abandoned home?"

Jane caught on.  "The same kind of truck we passed earlier near the lake."

Trent added to it.  "The kind of truck that's big enough to hide someone in if need be.  Jane, call Winters and let him know what we've found out.  I'll warm up the car."

Trent was in his idling clunker when Jane and Jesse ran out the house and jumped into the car.  He already had it backed out of the driveway as Jane said, "No answer on Scott's line.  We're on our own."

Trent looked over at his sister.  "You still armed?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Me too.  Jesse, how about you?"

"I'm good," he yawned, still waking up.

They drove an hour back to the lake.

The lake was nearly two kilometers across by one kilometer wide.  There were sporadic cabins on its shore.  Trent drove his car up and down plenty of dirt roads and saw plenty of other cars parked.  He discounted any cabin with more than one car, or any cabin closer than 200 meters from another.

"We need to find her or she's probably a goner tonight," Trent said for the three of them.  Jane and Jesse nodded as they knew what was at stake.  "I'm still pretty sure he's in this area."  They only had a little over an hour before that sick bastard began his webcast and started up on Daria again.

He drove around looking at other cabins and locations for another 30 minutes but nothing matched what he was looking for.  Finally, he drove up a slope and stopped the car on a rise overlooking a cluster of cabins below.  They got out of the car.  They looked at the cabins and lights near the lake.

"I've been looking in the wrong location," Trent said.  "He won't use any of these cabins.  They're too close together.  Daria's screams would be heard."

Jane looked towards the woods, following other gravel roads that disappeared in the moonlight.  "There have to be more cabins up these roads."

"I think there's a couple up this way and another up the left fork," Trent said.  "Why don't you and Jesse take the car and check out the couple up the right offshoot.  I'll go on foot up this other."

Jane nodded her head.  "Right.  If we don't find anything, we'll come back down this way and then up your road and pick you up."

"Be careful, man," Jesse said, getting into the driver's seat.

"You too," Trent forced a reassuring smile.

Trent watched them head up the gravel drive until the taillights disappeared.  He then took a quick look at his road and started jogging up.  Minutes later he was sweating and swearing.  "Stupid… lousy… #$@*&! second-hand smoke…"  

But he didn't quit jogging.

Nearly 10 minutes later, sweat pouring down his face, he spotted the lone cabin against the trees.  There were some pines close in to give it a rustic look, but most of the clearing within 30 meters had been cleared away.  It had been removed not only as a fire preventative measure, but it also allowed for additional parking.

Trent noticed the public service vehicle parked instantly.  He didn't know if it was the same one he'd seen earlier that day or not, but he was reasonably sure a public utility worker couldn't afford a cabin in the woods.  Nor were they working this late at night.

Trent did a quick inspection of the truck, making sure it was empty.  It was.

Quietly, he made his way up to the cabin.  He tried the front door latch.  Luck was on his side – it was unlocked.  He opened it slowly, looking in the crack first to get a lay of the room.

The place was dark.  He heard nothing.  Smelled nothing out of the ordinary.  Shaking his head, Trent figured he'd come up empty again.

*************

"Boy, howdy, campers.  And aren't we having some fun today?  I tell you, if you get a chance to do what you enjoy, it surely can't be called work.  What do you think, Daria?"

"That you're a sick, maladjusted jerk who hasn't ever had to work a day in his life?" she said defiantly.  Only, it didn't come out that defiantly.

"Oooohhh, tough words for someone so young.  But I've got to disagree with you on one thing – I do have a job.  My dad got it for me.  Say, you don't mind if I whistle while I work do you?"

"Does it matter if I care?"

"Not really," he replied, smiling under his mask.  She was a fun one.  She'd long since given up on pleading with him to let her go.  He cast his attention to the webcam.  "Okay, for tonight's lesson I thought we'd start on the upper body and work our way up."

"Repeat," Daria managed.

He looked back at her and lifted her head up by the chin.  She blazed hatred at him through her one eye.  "Not the way I have it planned, little dumpling."

He dropped the head and went to the tray next to the chair, whistling.  "How about the wood chisel?  Nah, we'll save that for later.  Chainsaw?  Now that's a repeat if I ever saw it.  Ah, here it is."

He walked back to Daria and lifted her head again, so his audience could see.  This was his favorite part.  The realization.  He held up a silver letter opener for her to see.

"Do you have any mail for me, young lady?" he asked.

"Bite me," she replied.

With his other hand he pulled her jacket down from her shoulder.  "Now is that any way to talk to your daddy?"

"You've never eaten dinner at my place before."

He took the letter opener and began to gouge a spot in Daria's shoulder.

She cried out, wanting him to stop even though she'd told herself she wouldn't cry out.

That's what he wanted.  He grinned and poked the opening in a little further.

*************

Trent heard a sound that chilled him to the bone.  It was Daria.  In pain.

Adrenaline pumping, he re-gripped the pistol and headed for a back room in the cabin.  He noticed a faint light coming from under a door.  As gently as he could, Trent turned the knob.  He knew what he had to wait for and kicked himself for needing it.

He waited for Daria to cry out again to cover the noise of his opening the door slightly.  It was a distraction that would work to his favor, but his gut churned at the sound of agony in her voice.

She quieted down and Trent heard a man's voice yakking to someone.  He had to assume two or more people inside.  He stepped back in the hallway, then kicked door.  It flew open and bounced a little on the wall and came back, but stayed open long for Trent to jump through, his gun pointing to the first person he saw.

It was some creep wearing a Clinton mask.  Trent's eyes swept the room quickly and noticed the creep was the only other person there besides Daria.  A computer with a webcam was positioned to view Daria's demise.  Trent's attention was firmly on Clinton-mask, his gun pointing towards his chest.  Two hands on the handle as he remembered.  He was nervous as hell but supressed the feeling.  He couldn't use it so ignored it.

Clinton-mask was standing within a few feet of Daria.  Trent noticed her arms were tied behind the back of the chair and her head hung limply.  She made some sort of gurgling noise and raised her head.  There was dried blood around where her left eye had been, caked down the side of her face.  She looked at him with her good eye, possibly not comprehending what she saw.

"Put the knife down," Trent ordered. 

"Now what kind of fun would we have if I dropped the knife?" he replied.

Trent could hear the smugness in his voice and clamped shut his jaw before he said something too animal.

"Drop it or I drop you.  Your choice."

Clinton-mask reevaluated his choices and dropped the knife to the ground.  It thunked as it hit and a little bit of red splattered off.

"Take off the mask," Trent said as he took another step closer to this creep.

He took the mask off.  Trent didn't recognize the man who was a typical middle aged power truck driver with a slight beard that looked more like 3-day old stubble on someone who would never grow a beard.  The most noticeable characteristic he had was to not have a chin.

"Boom, boom, what'cha gonna do when they come for you?  Right, copper?  What are you going to do now that you have me in your sights?  Gonna take me to jail?"  He grinned like he knew something.

Trent didn't know what this loser had in mind but if he had to guess he would've put good money on this bastard having connections.

Trent didn't trust him.  Not for one second.

Trent took another look at Daria.  She had a bleeding hole in her shoulder.  He turned his gaze back to the sadist.  "I'm not a cop, man.  And you're through messin' with my family."

The creep's eyes went wide for a moment as he considered diving for the knife he dropped.  But Trent expected him to do that and instead put a bullet through his gut.

BLAMMM!!

The sick SOB spun around from the concussive force of the entry and exit wound, and slid down a wall.  Trent moved to stand over him.  A red stain spread on the creep's shirt.

"Aaaahhh!  You shot me!"

"You're right," Trent agreed, cocking the hammer and shooting him again, this time in the leg.

"Aaaahhh!  Yes, that's how to do it, buddy.  Make it a game.  Maximum pain for maximum gain."

Trent's rage went out the door right then and there.  He had no intention of turning into another version of this jerk.  But his resolve stayed long enough to finish what he'd started.  He had more important things to do than play head games with this loser.

"Goodnight, Gracie."  Trent stepped back and shot him four more times, in the chest and in the neck.  The lights went out in the perv's eyes.

Trent dropped the gun and ran for Daria, pulling the switchblade out of his pocket to cut the straps off.

"Daria?!  Daria?!!  Don't you die on me!  Goddammit, I didn't just commit murder-1 to have you fade!"

Jane and Jesse ran into the room, out of breath from running after they'd heard the first shot.  "Trent?!  Trent!  Oh my God, Daria!" Jane cried.

"Jesse, call 9-1-1!"

"Daria!  You're okay, do you hear?!  You're okay!"

Jesse took a look at the dead guy, gulped, then took the phone from Trent and called the numbers.

Fade.

"Daria?"

**EPILOGUE 1:**

_One month later._

Trent and Jane had been with Daria at the hospital every day to check up on her.  The docs finally said it was time for her to go home and recuperate there instead of letting the HMO sock it to her father anymore.  Daria visibly relaxed when Trent and Jane came into the room.

"Jane, can you do something for me?"

"Sure," Jane replied quickly, glad to do something for her friend.

"Take my parents outside and don't let them back in."

"Now, look, sweetheart," her mother began, crossing her arms.

"Don't now look me, mom.  You and dad are driving me crazy.  Just go with Jane… for now, okay?  I can get my things packed myself."

"Well, okay, kiddo," her father said with some sort of contained fury at being a miner or something when he was a kid.

After they left, Daria got busy and started seriously packing her things.  It mainly consisted of picking up something, determining if it would break or not, and then tossing it into a bag.  If it was breakable she left it behind.

"So what do you plan to do now?" Trent asked.

Pick up, judge, toss, pick up, toss.  "That all depends," she replied candidly.

"Depends on what?  You missed those flowers on the table over there."

"No I didn't.  It depends on where you're taking me tonight."

"Are you sure you're up to going out tonight?"

"Well, I'm certainly not going to spend it with my parents."  She stopped her packing and looked out the window.  "Look, Trent, I've spent a lot of time thinking about what happened.  It was a bad time for me, it was a bad time for all of us."

Trent didn't say anything as he sat down on the edge of her bed.  He didn't want to break her concentration.

"I've had nightmares about it every day since.  I'm going to have nightmares about it for years to come.  But getting back to my old life is not an option I can give myself."

"Why not?" Trent asked.

"Because I was a victim in my old life.  And I won't be a victim again.  It's time to get on with living, to try new things, and spend time with you."

"Me?  Why me?"

Daria turned and looked at Trent.  "Because I not only feel comfortable in your presence, but also protected."

"Oh, that.  Don't worry, it'll probably pass.  Kind of like a bad sandwich," he kidded.

Daria smiled at the joke.  "I know it may pass.  But there's also a chance it may not pass.  And there's a possibility I don't want it to pass.  I want to explore my feelings with you.  I might get run over by a bus and die tomorrow so what the hell, let's get on with living life now.  And I want to stick around with the family I've created."

"Cool."

**EPILOGUE 2:**

_Three months later.  _

Daria sat in the passenger seat of Trent's car.  She still sported a bandage on her eye.  She wasn't convinced anything could ever be done to make it look normal let alone see out of it, but she allowed her mother to still think things could be done.

"Are you ready for this?" Trent asked.

Daria looked back towards the driver's seat with her good eye.  She grinned and held down the excitement she was feeling.  She'd been planning this for a while now and currently had butterflies in her stomach as the time approached.  "I'm about as ready as I'll ever be.  And I really want to do it."

Trent leaned in closer so she could feel his body warmth on the cold winter night.  "It's not too late to back out if you want," he offered.

He noticed her eye go wide as she asked, "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"Hell no.  But I'm willing to wait for as long as it takes.  I want you to feel comfortable with this.  I don't want to push you into something you don't want to do."

She smiled her slight grin towards him.  He couldn't help but notice it, just like every other time she did it.  "Don't worry, Trent," she said.  "I'll be fine.  In fact, the more I think about it, the easier it gets for me."

Trent leaned back into his driver's seat.  "No regrets, then?"

"No.  No regrets, tattoo-man.  Let's do it."

Trent unlocked the back door, opened his door and got out.  Daria opened her door and got out into the cold night.  Her breath came in controlled bursts that Trent noticed.  He could feel the cold as well.  But there wasn't anything he could do about it for the moment.  It was late at night and they needed the quiet and isolation if they were to do what needed being done.

He opened the rear door and leaned in, grabbing something.  He quickly got out of the car and closed the door.  He carried a very large padded briefcase as he and Daria walked up to the office building they were parked next to.  She quickly punched in the access code to the building and they entered.  Just as quickly, they walked to office #111 where Daria pulled out a key and opened the locked door.

Inside Trent put the case down on the single desk and began to unpack the laptop and webcam, hooking it up to wires and plugs previously tested.  Daria moved the desk chair out of the way, feeling she would need to move around as the night wore on.

Tests and trial runs complete, at nearly 1am, Daria began speaking into the active webcam.

"Well, hello again, dirtbags.  As you each know from the e-mail sent last week, I now know who you are and where you actually live.  I've researched each of you and even know what it is you do for a living.  This subscriber database was taken from your former host whom you should all remember as he was the sick creep who took my eye."

"You might be wondering why it is I've asked you to tune in for tonight's show.  The bible has a saying – an eye for an eye.  Therefore, we're going to play a new type of game."

Trent walked into webcam view.  He wore red tinted glasses that complemented his black dress pants and white button-up long sleeved shirt.  He still had the gun he used to shoot the previous host but it is now in a shoulder holster as if he were a legit bodyguard which truth be told, he had since become.  A personal bodyguard for Daria only.  One with a legal permit to carry a weapon.  He no longer looked like an overgrown kid with music aspirations if only the right deal would come along… instead he looked like someone who was no stranger to killing a person if they needed removing from the gene pool.

Daria continued.  "My associate and I have given a lot of thought to this new game.  We call it, 'Getting Rich'.  Here's how it works.  It's quite simple, really.  Anyone who can come up with 50 grand will be deleted from the subscriber list and avoid 'retribution' from the Feds who will be getting said list tomorrow morning."

"As you may have guessed," Trent started, "we already have an online account for you to drop funds in.  That number is now appearing on your screen.  This offshore bank accepts Visa, MasterCard, straight electronic deposits.  Basically, if it's currency, they accept it."

"And of course, if it makes you feel any better, consider this an impromptu pledge drive for me to get a new eye.  The lines are open, so feel free to make your deposits for another three hours.  After that, the lines close and this list will be sent."

"How about that, Daria.  We have our first confirmation of funds.  That's one down and 32 more to go.  Strike that person from the list."

"You got it, Trent.  Well, that certainly opened it up.  Scratch off three more names as I just got confirmation… No, make that four names."

That night, Trent and Daria made over $800,000 dollars in the first half-hour.

They didn't bother to scratch any of the names off the list, though.  Instead, they faxed the entire list to Agent Winters.  

**EPILOGUE 3:**

_Six months later._

Clouds built up in the distance as the sun began its slow descent into the sea off the coast of Jamaica.  Daria breathed in the warm air and looked over, expecting to see Trent asleep.  His chest rose and fell rhythmically and he appeared out cold but as soon as Daria began to reach over to touch him, his eyes snapped open and he began scouring the beach for anything out of the ordinary.

She was used to it.  He'd been doing that for a long time now.  He was always making sure who was around and what he might be up against.  She thought at first that it was her coming in to wake him that caused him to react that way but she knew better when he said, "Company."

Daria looked around and quickly saw three men coming up to them, not dressed as tourists.  One was dressed in shorts and a tropical shirt, but the other two were wearing three-piece suits and wearing shades even though the sun had since set.  She recognized tropical shirt guy from a picture in the newspaper only.

"Hey, Scott," Trent said easily.

Agent Scott Winters of the FBI pulled up a vacated chair and thumped down, sweat pouring down his neck.  "Jeez, it's hot.  You couldn't have picked a better place for your honeymoon?" he asked, shaking Trent's hand.

"We weren't expecting company," Trent replied simply.

"Yeah, yeah.  A pleasure to meet you again, Daria, albeit under better circumstances," he said, shaking her hand.

"I recognize your face from a picture in the paper, but have we met?"

"Not really.  Trent and I sort of… worked… together during your ordeal some time ago.  I met you when you were in the hospital.  I doubt you remember me.  By the way, I like the eyepatch.  Green's your color."

"So my sister keeps telling me."

"So what brings you out to sunny Jamaica, mon?" Trent asked, eyeing the two suits.

"Trent, Daria, I'd like you to meet some gentlemen.  This is Donnie," he indicated a burly man in a brown suit, "and this is Mick," he indicated the muscle in the black suit.  "Let's stay with first names only at this time.  They both work for someone who's sometimes known as The Goose."

Mick said, "The Goose got a tape of Mr. Maimer's final performance, when he was working you over, Mrs. Daria."

"And he din't like it," Donnie chimed in.

"He did like the endin', though."

"Which is why he sent you this," said Donnie, opening a briefcase, flap towards Trent and Daria.

The case contained stacks of bills.

"It's a million dollars in case you're wondering," Scott supplied, smiling.

Trent accepted the case, closed the lid and looked back to the suits.  "Why?" he asked.

"The Goose's granddaughter was snatched by that Mr. Maimer about a year ago," Scott said quietly.  "When he found out who did it, he put an open contract out on him.  Trent, you fulfilled the contract by killing him."

"You sure seem to know a lot about Mr. Goose's business," Daria observed.

"You might say… we have mutual interests."

"I'm surprised that he was okay with us getting rid of that dope runner then," Trent commented.

"Rival mob," Donnie said.  Mick punched him in the arm to shut him up.

"As Donnie said, there was no conflict of interest while I was working on the case back in Lawndale."

"You're the one who sent us the names and addresses on Mr. Maimer's computer so we could blackmail the rest of those scumbuckets," Daria realized.  Agent Winters simply smiled and said nothing.  "So after we sent you the list back, what happened to them?"

"Actually, nothing happened since some of the files on the computer were mysteriously misplaced or destroyed.  In fact, the FBI would very much like to backtrace some of those files back to the viewers and are defragging the computer to get what they can but I doubt they will get very much.  However, that's also why we're here.  Mick?"

"The Goose was impressed with the way you snuffed that sicko, Mr. Trent, and would like to offer you a retainer."

"A retainer for what?" Trent asked.

"For getting back at the creeps who paid that Mr. Maimer to whack young girls.  It seems he has recently acquired a list of names and addresses and is looking to do some serious payback."

Trent and Daria looked at each other.  Daria could see the turmoil in his face and said, "Do whatever you think is best, honey."

Trent looked at the mob torpedoes and said, "I'm sorry.  I can't kill anymore.  I'm more of a nonviolent kind of guy."

Donnie and Mick both smirked, showing their disbelief.  Trent didn't know it, but he was something of a star, albeit of a very small screen.

Scott rose to his feet, saying, "Think it over, Trent.  If you should change your mind, here, give me a call."  He handed Trent a business card.

"I won't be changing my mind," he said, putting the card under his towel, next to his .38 Special.

*********

Agent Winters was in his office in Washington a few days later when the phone rang.  "Hello?"  Pause.  "I'm glad you gave it some thought."  Pause.  "Yes, he would like it drawn out to maximize the effect."  Pause.  "You do?  Great.  I'll let him know.  I'll be in touch within a few days."

On the other end of the line, Daria hung up the phone, thinking.  Trent may have returned to nonviolence and certainly enjoys his time up on stage.  But what was there for her to do?

But she only had her mind.  And there wasn't anything to keep her mind from wandering.  Wandering and wondering.  Wondering and plotting.  Plotting downfalls.  Planning destruction.  She had been busy creating multiple revenge scenarios against the creeps who financed the loss of her eye.  She didn't know if she would kill them, but she would certainly make them pay.

Any way she had to.

**EPILOGUE 4:**

_Two months later._

Daria sat at her computer, staring at the screen, thinking.  It was nearly a year to the day when she almost died at the hands of a sick SOB.  She looked down at her hands, noting they didn't quiver when she thought about him anymore.  She was finally getting some closure on this whole ordeal.

Of course, it didn't hurt that closure came in the way of an ever-increasing bank account.  She didn't know if any of the pervs had known each other or not, but she was certain that by now they would've noticed certain very rich individuals being destroyed in very creative ways.  They weren't being killed, Daria hadn't been able to get herself to go that far.  She was grateful for that at least.

Her conscience was still with her – but she'd known it had been a very close thing to going over the edge.  She knew she wasn't like she was a year ago, but at least she could still live with herself.

Several of the pervs had even tracked her down and called her, offering to pay her more in order to avoid being ruined financially.  She had accepted their proposals and then squeezed them dry.  Once she was done, she then found a different avenue to destroy their characters.  She still had no sympathy for them, she never would.  But she did enjoy spending their money.  What happened to them after they were rendered penniless was their concern, not hers.  She knew they'd have a hard time keeping ahead of The Goose's contracts, but that was the bed they made and now they could lay in it.

By the time she'd ruined all of Mr. Maimer's regular viewers, she had acquired a fortune of nearly 21 million dollars.  All acquired illegally – or, somewhat illegally, or at the very worst, immorally.  And almost all donated to various charities anonymously.  She did keep several million for herself – she wasn't stupid after all.

But like everything else, it was time to move on.  She and Trent had outgrown their apartment in Lawndale.  The way she saw it, there just wasn't anything left for her anymore.  She was tired of being the object of everyone's pity whenever they went anywhere.  Look, there's the poor girl who was attacked.  Hey, isn't that the victim of that serial killer – what's his name – oh, yeah, Mr. Maimer, etc., etc., etc.

She closed the laptop and disconnected it from the wall.  She looked around her office.  There were dust bunnies in the corner, the closet was empty, the furniture was all gone save for the chair she was sitting on and the desk she was using.  The room would probably be used as a second bedroom again by the next tenant.

She'd already talked it over with Trent and in the morning they'd be leaving.  There was more to the world then this town.  She wanted to see it.  Trent would always find solace in his music.  It calmed him as well as energized him.  But she was different.  She didn't have music for that.

She only had her mind.  That, and an eyepatch over her one eye to compliment the tattoos on her arm that matched Trent's (and hid some of her scars).  At least she hadn't gotten her bellybutton pierced again.

Her parents didn't want her to leave.  Hell, they hadn't even wanted her to move in with Trent so long ago but she'd done it anyway.  As is, she was too restless to stay.  Deep down she knew it was time to leave.

So she did.

The End 

**Location: History 363.  **

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                                       Discussion.  Diana?  Thomas?  Tell me about Trent Lane.

Thomas:                                 He was smart.

Diana:                                     Shrewd.

Thomas:                                 Driven.

Diana:                                     And a narcoleptic.

Kara:                                       Eeeeewwwwwww.

Thomas:                                 That means, he falls asleep a lot, Kara.

Kara:                                       Oh.  Sorry.

Ben:                                        To her defense, that puts my mind at ease as well.

Nick:                                       People, we're getting off subject here.  Miss Rajchel, what happened with Trent Lane after he put his story in the Time Capsule?

Diana:                                     We found records that Trent stayed in town for the next five years, playing bars and regional events.  During that time, he apparently also wrote and had published three well-received murder mysteries.  He apparently conducted author signings during stopovers at towns where he got gigs with Mystik Spiral.

Bob:                                        Mystik what?

Diana:                                     Mystik Spiral.  It was the name of their band.  It never went anywhere, but he stayed with them and played lead guitar.  I'm pretty sure that Trent Lane supported it with proceeds from his novels.  The others got jobs and eventually the band simply faded away.  I'm not sure if Trent leaving Lawndale was the reason it faded or a byproduct of its demise.

Thomas:                                 Trent married three times.  We found an old article announcing his wedding to a Monique something or other – I can't remember her last name.  This was roughly the same time as when the time capsule went to ground.  She stayed with him, he played with his band, and eventually they divorced.  No reason as to why, other than one day she was gone.  He began writing murder mysteries after that.

Aaron:                                    You don't suppose he did some research into the murder angle, do you?

Thomas:                                 Meaning did he kill his first wife, Monique?  No.  I found a reference that she died during the VLS scare several decades later.  Her name is on the official list.  And seeing the picture of her, I can guess why she was taken out – she looked like a drinker.  Her cheeks were hollow, eyes recessed and she was pale since she didn't go out at night.

Mike:                                      Good thing Naomi wasn't there then.

Naomi:                                    Are you looking for a knuckle sandwich?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Settle down, people.

Thomas:                                 Trent Lane apparently had better luck with his second wife.  It was during his post-band days while on a book tour that he met a waitress at a truck stop.  He said it was instantaneous, some etherial mumbo-jumbo, and a few months later they were living together.  A half year later, they were married, and he left town.

Amy:                                      Where did you find that information?

Thomas:                                 On one of his book's dust jacket's.  There was a short bio of him on it.  Anyway, that marriage lasted 25 years until she died of ovarian cancer.  They had two sons named Darren and Jack.  Both had no interest in music and went into military service instead.  They are both career men and still in the military.  Darren is an officer in Air Intel and Jack is a drill sergeant in Alabama.  Both are married and have kids.  Total, there are three girls and 2 boys which I've recently found out are trying to form a band.

Diana:                                     Trent has not remarried but is supposed to have a serious love interest these days.  We couldn't get his publicist to drop any names or anything.  All she would say is that he and this mystery woman have been an item for some time now.

Nick:                                       So Trent made a career writing mystery books?

Diana:                                     Well, yes and no.

Thomas:                                 He wrote a lot of mystery books when he was younger.  He made a good enough living at it since we couldn't find him working any other job.

Diana:                                     But when VLS came around, he got active in politics.  He had since moved to California with his wife and family and when campaigning, his laid back attitude got him noticed.  He got into the Senate and worked on family issues for two terms before resigning.

Thomas:                                 After that, he went back to writing mystery books.  He doesn't do tours anymore, but has a new book coming out this summer.

Nick:                                       Sounds good.  Anything else?

Thomas:                                 Some.  Diana and I got interested in some of the characters in the story.  We know that Jane is real since we talked about her weeks ago.  We also know Daria is real, so we decided to see if any of the other characters listed were real.

Nick:                                       And?

Diana:                                     We found that Jesse, Nick and Max were all people in his band.  The others we couldn't confirm, so we did some research on them.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Really?  What did you find out?

Thomas:                                 That they all stayed in music, even after the band broke up.

Diana:                                     Although each went into something different.  Jesse not only got a job as a romance novel cover boy who marketed himself as the son of Fabio – whoever the heck he is, but also maintained his physique by opening a Power Aerobics studio here in town focussing on music for muscle conditioning.  It was moderately successful and he is the lead instructor to this day.  When I interviewed him, all I could think of was that for a 70 year old man, he didn't look a day over 50.  He also played bouncer when his kid played on stage in later years at the Zon, which finally went respectable once it was turned into a touristy spot because of Trent's growing fame.

Thomas:                                 Nick worked as a car stereo installer until he earned enough to open his own Quality Auto Sound franchise.  It was promptly robbed.  This led to Nick diversifying into auto alarm sales and the creation of his own theft deterrent which basically drained a car's battery into whoever tried to lift a stereo, usually putting the would-be thief into a coma.  Trent helped Nick pass legislation to legalize this form of anti-theft device, claiming "It's wrong to steal music, man, even on MSNNapster".  I haven't quite figured that reference out.

Diana:                                     Max became a born-again Christian who believed in miracles.  He tried convincing his former band mates they should sing in a church choir, which apparently they tried.  We found a reference to this on Max's website which as far as we can tell hasn't been updated in decades.  That isn't surprising considering  Max was institutionalized when he was in his late 20's, claiming he was the reborn Dali Lama's left shoe even though the current Lama wasn't yet dead, nor were any of his shoe's missing.  I didn't want to know any more of this so we left it alone.

Nick:                                       That's good investigating, guys.  So tell me, anyone.  What conclusions can you draw from this story?

Geoff:                                     Jane wrote it.

Nick:                                       You sound awfully sure about that.

Geoff:                                     I am.  I compared it to Jane's story as we went over it.  It's very similar.

Dan:                                        It's a different kind of story entirely, so how can it be similar?

Geoff:                                     It has a similar style to it, just like Jane's.

Steven:                                   I have to agree with Geoff.  It does have a similar style.

Thomas:                                 We thought of that as well, Steve, so we asked Nick to research the Li database and see if there was any reference to it.

Nick:                                       And there was.

Diana:                                     So instead of us telling you Jane didn't write it, why don't we let her tell you that.  Nick?

Nick:                                       Loading… now.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

BEGIN VIDEO 

**December 2001.**

**Location: Lawndale High, hallway.  Time: afternoon.**

Daria walks up to Jane at her locker.

Jane:                                       Hey.

Daria:                                      Hey.

Jane:                                       Okay, enough of the bantering already.  I'll spring for pizza later.  Just don't get used to it.

Daria:                                      Why'd you do it, Jane?

Jane:                                       Spring for pizza?  Let's just say I have paying customers.

Daria:                                      Huh?

Jane:                                       Okay, okay, one customer who liked the portrait I did of him.

Daria:                                      That's not what I meant.

Jane:                                       Me neither.  He didn't like the neon colors I used on his nostrils, but a contract's a contract I always say.

Daria:                                      What I meant was, why did you write Trent's story?

Jane:                                       I don't know what you're talking about, girl in the green coat and glasses.

Daria:                                      C'mon, Jane, give it up.  I read the story.  It has the same pacing, the same characterization, basically, the same style as yours.  Why did you write Trent's story?  Did he oversleep again?

Jane:                                       Um, it's not like what you think at all, Daria.

Daria:                                      Jane, the styles are too similar.  You wrote both stories…

Jane:                                       Not quite true, Nancy Drew.

Daria:                                      Huh?

Jane:                                       I'll admit that I wrote the first paragraph of his story.  And I helped a little with the plot, but that's all.

Daria:                                      Then why does it sound so much like your story?

Jane:                                       Because Trent wrote **both stories.  I'd actually fleshed out my story and Trent, um… sort of helped with the dialog and the pacing, and the style, and the characterization.**

Daria:                                      Jane, I've heard Trent's songs, remember?  He couldn't write his way out of a paper bag.

Jane:                                       Again, not quite true, Daria.  Trent was always a good writer.  When he was still in high school, he wrote some really great stories.  It's just that he kind of… sucks with lyrics.

Daria:                                      You're kidding.

Jane:                                       And here you thought he was just eye candy all this time.  Now you find out he has a brain.

Daria:                                      Oh, crap.

Jane:                                       What?

Daria:                                      And here I was ready to congratulate you as well.

Jane:                                       For what?

Daria:                                      For having my fictional self tortured and mutilated.  You really know how to get on my good side.

Jane:                                       Had I written it, I would have gladly accepted it, and truthfully – I had to goad Trent into doing that bit.  He was unsure how you'd react if you ever read it, but he took care of the details.  As is, I **knew you'd like that part.**

Daria:                                      And why's that?

Jane:                                       C'mon, Daria.  Have you ever read any of the stuff you've written?  It can get pretty graphic.

Daria:                                      Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don't know.  pause  I just…

Jane:                                       Just what?

Daria:                                      It's…

Jane:                                       C'mon, spit it out.  But not on me.  If you're going to spit, do it on someone like your sister.

Daria:                                      Trent?

Jane:                                       Yes.  You know him.  He lives with me.  Big, tall guy.  Tattoos.

Daria:                                      He can write?

Jane:                                       Last time I looked.

Daria:                                      When the hell did that happen?

Jane:                                       I don't know.  Why don't you ask him.

Daria:                                      Oh.  Um… I need to… um…

Jane:                                       Go study?

Daria:                                      Yeah.

Jane:                                       At home?

Daria:                                      Yeah.

Jane:                                       Trent was awake when I left.  

Daria:                                      Yeah… um…

Jane:                                       Let's do pizza tomorrow.  You're paying.  My, look at the time.  Gotta go.

Daria walks off towards the school exit.  Jane stands at her locker and grins after her.

**VIDEO ENDS**

Nick:                                       So what was in the time capsule from him?

Bridget:                                  I thought the time capsule was his contribution.

Nick:                                       It was, but he opted to leave something behind as well.  Thomas?

Thomas:                                 It was a CD containing Mystik Spiral's first and only claim to musical fame.

Bob:                                        Did you listen to it?

Diana:                                     Well, it was hard finding technology so old to read it, but then we thought why not call Nick…

Nick:                                       Hey, easy there.  I'm still grading you.

Diana (grinning):                  And he had access to an old CD player.  We popped it in and downloaded all the files.  Jeez, what a sound.

Rose:                                      Good or bad?

Thomas:                                 Both.  The only songs I cared for on that album were Ice Box Woman, and Freakin' Friends.  And I'm not even sure about Ice Box Woman.

Bob:                                        Wasn't that based on a movie or something?

Jane:                                       Oh, who knows.  Do you always compare everything to movies and TV?

Bob:                                        Well… yeah.  Don't you?

Nick:                                       Simmer down.  Thomas, Diana – good job, you two.  Let's call it a day.  Who's up next for story-time?

Two students raise their hands.

Nick:                                       Kara?  Dan?  You two ready to go?  Good enough.  

_NEXT:                                   Jodie's story: Video Interviews_

Contact me:

jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2002 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).  

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed.  Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you.  A coincidence!   To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real.  Or could it?  I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	12. Jodie's Story Video Interviews

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!**

**Location: History 363. **

**Time: Now.**

Virus Legacy Syndrome – or VLS as it was commonly known, originated in Ohio, USA in 2029. Scientists working on non-invasive surgical techniques were looking for a way to get the body to move micro-surgical equipment into place without resorting to cutting a patient open. The initial push was to use a modified virus in order to have a body's own blood flow slide micro equipment into a set location where an external computer would then provide a link up and the surgery could begin. The most common usage for this would be to work on clogged arteries and heart valves saturated with fatty residue from a lifetime diet of take-out. 

The initial surgeries went well but the inventors of the technology appeared to have overlooked what would happen to the virus and not the equipment left in the bloodstream. Conventional wisdom at the time suggested that the body would treat the leftover micro equipment as waste and discard it shortly after the surgery was done. Had this technology been available 40 years previous that is certainly possible. However, with the saturation of life on the planet by over 2,000 satellites in space constantly beaming on expanding bandwidths, the micro-surgical equipment was unintentionally left active and moving around a patient's body. Further, it began to interact with the virus.

The doctors never noticed this as the initial surgery on the patients were all successful, and that was all that was needed for FDA approval of a new drug and operating technique. The company who founded the NVSL program, BLNDRNVRQT, Inc., IPO'd their stock the day the FDA approval came in. Shares were bought and sold and the management quickly came into several million dollars. The NVSL program, once identified as the culprit of the epidemic, was renamed VLS as the virus had mutated from its original form, and NVSL held a copyright and trademark which networks were reluctant to put on air fearing it would cost them revenue.

The patients who had the micro-surgeries, 16 people from all around the world (6 from USA, 2 from South America, 4 from Europe, 3 from Asia and 1 from Australia), were returned home. They continued to live but not surprisingly, their conditions changed. The micro-surgical equipment still in their bodies was undergoing unintentional software changes as well. While not fully seen, historians and physicians hypothesized that the constant satellite bombardment combined with some rather flimsy GHz microprocessors, began to alter the virus, which in turn altered the physiology of the patients. The equipment required blood to move around in and not surprisingly, began to covet more blood. This had the unfortunate side effect of turning the initial 16 patients into what many considered modern day vampires. The surgical equipment began to stimulate the patients' senses in order to locate more blood. Interviews suggest that while they may all have come to feel these urges their body was giving them, they resisted and instead began to eat raw meat.

However, the VLS was not satisfied with the low blood intake and by 2033, the first VLS assault was recorded in Bristol, England. The victim was not drained of their blood like the old story Dracula would have it, but did lose several pints and wound up in the hospital. The perpetrator, Mrs. Donna Whist, was arrested and put in jail. While awaiting trial, she assaulted several other inmates and guards, drawing blood from them as well.

While the assaults were vicious, worse yet was the VLS system had managed to begin replicating itself in the host body and began transferring copies of itself into each victim. These copies were worse than the original as they started with rouge DNA that continued to mutate in subsequent victim bodies. The original 16 were cured after a few sessions in front of an E-pulse generator, but the victims were not as lucky as it was the virus that had mutated and not the micro equipment…

**NAOMI. WILL YOU BE JOINING US SOMETIME TODAY? OR SHOULD I SIMPLY TRANSFER YOUR CLASS DITCH FUNDS INTO MY GENERAL ACCOUNT?**

Naomi stared at the words on her laptop, which was hooked into the desknet. She then looked up to see everyone staring at her. She took her earphones off and gave a sheepish smile.

Naomi:                                    Sorry, Mrs. Whitmore. I was just working on some background information for my Macro biology report.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    That's in your 6th period, I believe.

Naomi:                                    Yes, ma'am.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Then you can work on it during lunch. In the meantime, Nick, what's on the agenda for today?

Nick:                                       Kara and Dan. They're presenting Jodie Landon's work.

Colin:                                      Go get 'em, you wild gal.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Settle down.

Nick:                                       Unlike all the previous authors, Jodie Landon decided to compile a video archive from students and faculty describing their hopes and dreams of the future. Kara?

Kara:                                       Initial research into Jodie Landon indicates she was an influential member of her school class – vice president, on numerous clubs and involved in just about every activity during her four years in school. I did a little research on her school days before sifting through the video footage. I wasn't sure why she acquiesced to doing the interviews vs. writing a story, but I suspect it had to do with a time commitment.

Nicole:                                    But didn't it take **longer** to do interviews than to work on a story?

Kara:                                       True. But I'm not sure she had the time to work on a story at home, or if she wanted to go home to work on it to begin with.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    What makes you say that, Miss Wild?

Kara:                                       Because of what she left as her contribution to the time capsule.

Jim:                                         What was it?

Kara:                                       It was a set of car keys. I managed to track it down through one of the dealerships in town and found it belonged to a 2001 Mitsubishi SUV.

Diane:                                     Maybe they fell in there by mistake.

Kara:                                       I don't think they were her keys. I checked Mitsubishi SUV prices on the net for that time period and cross-referenced cost of living index. I think that car was out of her price range. If it wasn't, then she had a few extra dollars to spend at the time, but I don't think so. If I had to guess, they probably were her parent's keys.

Nick:                                       Why do you think that?

Kara:                                       Just a gut feeling after watching the interviews. Speaking of which, there were hundreds of interviews covering about four hours. I didn't think we'd want to watch all these, so I uploaded the entire file into my website in case anyone wants to watch more than what we're showing today. I'd like to thank Bob for his help in this project.

Bob:                                        Awww, that's just embarrassing.

Kara:                                       Not so. All the video segments were disjointed. It was like one person walked around with a camera, took the footage and when finished, didn't do any post-production at all and instead transferred everything to DVD and simply threw the entire thing into the time capsule without another thought. Bob helped make this a little easier to watch. Not to mention being able to un-compile the mess so we could reformat it for true net speed. Further, once we were able to access the Li database, Bob was able to locate a lot of transition pieces that makes these interviews more complete.

Nick:                                       So what are we going to be watching today?

Kara:                                       We decided to narrow the footage to those authors we've been discussing this semester. And anyone else they interacted with. 

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

**Jodie's Interviews**

**By Jodie Landon**

**(transcribed by Steve Brown)**

BEGIN VIDEO

**May 2002.**

An image of Jodie Landon is seen standing in front of a camera, large microphone in hand as if she is a reporter. She is in a hallway of Lawndale High. Lockers can be seen behind her. The picture is a little grainy and digital slippage is seen every now and then, obscuring faces and/or background.

**Super under shot: Jodie Landon.**

Jodie:                                      Mack, are you sure this is on?

Off-camera Mack:                 It's on. It's got power and the red dot indicates it's recording. How much time do you have with this tape anyway?

Jodie:                                      About six hours. Now, shush, I'm going to start the intro.

Off-camera Mack:                 Good luck.

Jodie:                                      Good morning to you future students. My name is Jodie Landon and I hope you find this a little helpful in finding out what life was like in our time. (beat) Jeez, Mack, that sounds so lame.

Off-camera Mack:                 I told you it wasn't a good idea to let the faculty help you write the intro.

Jodie:                                      Yeah, I know. But when I asked Daria, she said she'd only do it if we'd let Jane do the intro in a hockey mask carrying a chainsaw.

Off-camera Mack:                 And you refused?

Jodie:                                      No. Ms. Li refused when she heard about it. This sucks.

**Jodie and the rest of the scene freeze. Darth Vader walks into the picture.**

**Darth Vader:                        The force is very strong with this one.**

Darth then walks off camera, the scene wipes to another location behind him. The camera angle now appears to walk down a hallway in Lawndale High. Jodie is off camera. Students are moving about seemingly between classes.

Off-camera Jodie:                 This is the west corridor of Lawndale High. It's not any different than the east, north or south corridors other than the name. As you can see, our school spared no expense in using the lead-based paints it got at wholesale prices on the Internet. Notice the lime green walls matching the olive green ceilings and the scuffed tile flooring. Makes you wish you could have been walking these floors, eh? Oh what am I saying? If your school board is anything like our school board, you're probably still walking the same tile. Man, this really sucks.

Cut to Static white noise, "ZZZZRRRRPPP", and static view cloud the screen. 

Cut to Lawndale lunchroom. The camera angle appears standing in the cafeteria. Students are moving between tables and eating food, or what the school called food. It's a little hard to tell.

**Super under shot: Kevin Thompson.**

Off-camera Jodie:                 This is the lunchroom. I heard rumors that in the late 1980's they actually served things like real food here, but these days it's all just processed waste recycled in fresh plastic to make it seem closer to what you would eat. But don't let these people fool you; they're not really eating anything. Right, Kevin?

Kevin:                                    Huh?

Off-camera Jodie:                 This is Kevin Thompson. He's the quarterback for the football team in case you didn't recognize the uniform he never takes off, and believe me, when the boiler cranks into overtime and the heat just doesn't stop, you can really notice he doesn't take it off.

Kevin:                                    Yeah! I'm the QB!

Off-camera Jodie:                 So tell me, Kevin. What do you want to do when you grow up?

Kevin:                                    Huh?

Off-camera Jodie:                 Grow up, Kevin. What do you want to be?

Kevin:                                    I'm gonna be the QB, man!

Off-camera Jodie:                 Even after you graduate?

Kevin:                                    Aw, man, that's not going to happen for years.

Off-camera Jodie:                 And never have truer words been spoken.

Student 1:                              Yo, Kev-man. You're graduating in a few months with the rest of the seniors, dude!

Kevin:                                    (An uncertain smile is plastered on his face) I'm not a senior, man! I still get the chicks!

Student 2:                              Who'd you get recently, Kev?

Kevin:                                    Well, you know Angela?

Off-camera Jodie:                 Kevin! Try to focus, okay? This is for our class assignment!

Kevin:                                    But we're at lunch – we don't get assignments at lunch!

Off-camera Jodie:                 (Quieter) Must try to lower IQ for this. (Louder) Okay, Kevin, let me put it to you this way. What are you going to do once you graduate school and can't play football here at Lawndale anymore?

Kevin:                                    Oh, that's easy! I'm gonna be the QB for a college school.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Any one in particular?

Kevin:                                    Whichever one asks me to come, babe.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Have you sent out college applications or been contacted by a school yet?

Kevin:                                    Huh? Why?

Off-camera Jodie:                 Because you're graduating?

Student 2:                              Yeah, Kev! You're a senior!

Kevin:                                    Man, I'm not a senior! I still get the chicks!

Off-camera Jodie:                 And so the world spins back into itself. Moving on. 

**Cut to MS shot of President Nixon, laughing.**

**President Nixon:                 Sock it to me!**

Cut to new camera angle, still in lunchroom, now showing different table area. Camera then moves towards table where Jane Lane and Daria Morgendorffer are sitting.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Board, pause video.

The electronic blackboard paused the video and went to a black screen. The windows automatically un-polarized to let sunlight back into the classroom. The room lights also came up gradually.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Kara, Dan, what's going on?

Kara:                                       What do you mean, Mrs. Whitmore?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    The scene changes. Darth Vader, President Nixon? They weren't there in the original video, were they?

Kara:                                       Um… no.

Bob:                                        It was my addition, Mrs. Whitmore.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Oh? Why?

Bob:                                        Well, when Kara and Dan asked for some help de-compiling the images and getting some of the references down, I thought it was kind of, well… boring that the scene shifts were either some white static or a jump cut from one location to another. So I thought it would look better if it were jazzed up a little bit.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    I see. And you took old video archive pieces and put them in?

Bob:                                        Um, yeah. Essentially.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    A creative use of your time, Bob. Extra credit approved. You went the extra mile when you didn't have to. Well done. Board, resume video.

The lights went down, the windows blackened and the electronic blackboard flickered back to life.

**The camera moves towards the two unsuspecting girls. **

Off-camera Jodie:                 Ah. Meet Jane Lane. A very fine artist. So, Jane, what do you plan to do with the rest of your life?

**Super under shot: Jane Lane.**

Jane:                                       Hey, Daria, I'm having those hallucinations again where floating cameras are asking me questions.

Daria:                                      Don't answer unless they can pay.

Off-camera Jodie:                 This is for our class assignment, Jane.

Jane:                                       You know, Daria, I'm getting this strange feeling that this floating camera knows me.

Daria:                                      It's just your imagination. I'm sure it couldn't be Jodie as she would know after all these years to not bother us with class assignments during lunch.

Off-camera Jodie:                 But you two don't stick around after school.

Jane:                                       Sorry. No speekee English.

Off-camera Jodie:                 C'mon, Jane. I just got the runaround with Kevin.

Daria:                                      That's because Kevin has no brain. Didn't the straw body give it away?

Jane:                                       Y'know, Jodie. I've actually been giving some thought to what I'd do after I graduated.

Off-camera Jodie:                 And?

Jane:                                       I'm thinking of buying that 6-foot inflatable Godzilla down at the video store, and going to Inverness, Scotland. From there I'll go to the shores of Loch Ness, inflate the Godzilla, put it in the water and take some pictures. Then I'll get my first headline with: Loch Ness Monster Finally Revealed as Hoax! That'll show them! Lousy good for nothing newspaper hacks who wouldn't publish the pictures I took last summer…

(Transcriber's note: **I've actually done this!**)

Off-camera Jodie:                 Then what'll you do?

Jane:                                       (Jane's face has a stunned expression) There's more? You mean I have to spend the rest of my life living vicariously through others?

Daria:                                      You mean you don't already?

Jane:                                       Of course not. Well, only if they pay me enough.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Why did I volunteer to do this instead of writing a story?

Daria:                                      Because you're a glutton for punishment?

Off-camera Jodie:                 Okay, Daria. Your turn. What do you want to be when you grow up?

**Super under shot: Daria Morgendorffer.**

Daria:                                      Taller.

Off-camera Jodie:                 C'mon, Daria. Can't you be serious just this once?

Daria:                                      You seriously expect that of me?

Off-camera Jodie:                 Daria!

Daria:                                      Sorry, late for class. Maybe next time.

Daria and Jane leave, the camera watching them go. 

Screen wipe as a cartoon great white shark swims across the screen, shifting scenes from the lunchroom back to a hallway in Lawndale High.

The camera moves down the corridor towards a bunch of girls in cheerleader outfits.

**Super under shot: Brittany Taylor.**

Off-camera Jodie:                 Hi, Brittany.

Brittany:                                 Hi, Jodie. Is that a new look for you?

Off-camera Jodie:                 What, this old camera? I've had it for ages?

Brittany:                                 You have? Wow. Did you know that there's someone else here who looks just like you only not with a camera in front of their face?

Off-camera Jodie:                 I was kidding, Brittany.

Brittany:                                 I know.

Off-camera Jodie:                 So, what are you going to do when you graduate, Brittany?

Brittany:                                 My dad said I could have a party.

Off-camera Jodie:                 (whispers) Your dad always gives you a party. (louder) And then after the party? What are you going to do with the rest of your life?

Brittany:                                 Well, I'm thinking of being a professional cheerleader.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Oh, really? For what team?

Brittany:                                 No, team, silly. I'm going to be a cheerleader in a USO show with Bob Hope.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Um, Brittany, how did you come up with that idea?

Brittany:                                 Well, I kind of got talking to Mr. Smith and one thing led to another, and…

Off-camera Jodie:                 Wait a minute. Who's Mr. Smith?

Brittany:                                 Oh, he's this dreamy guy I met downtown. He looked so dashing in his uniform.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Uniform? He wasn't hanging out in a recruiting office, was he?

Brittany:                                 Yeah! Hey, how did you know?

Off-camera Jodie:                 Brittany, we'll talk later. I'll get you out of this. How about you, Angela? What do you plan to do after graduation?

**Super under shot: Angela Lay.**

Angela (cheerleader #2):     I'm going to be a cheerleader in college!

Off-camera Jodie:                 But aren't you going to a community college?

Angela:                                  Yeah? So?

Off-camera Jodie:                 Never mind. Kim? How about you?

**Super under shot: Kim Smith.**

Kim (cheerleader #3):           Well, I'm going to marry a football player and live in an expensive home. So I guess he'll have to make a lot of money.

**Super under shot: Lisa Rogers.**

Lisa (cheerleader #4):          Hey, that was my answer. Have you been hanging around Robbie again?

Kim:                                        Robbie? I thought he was going out with Denise?

Lisa:                                        Denise? I'm going to kill him!

Off-camera Jodie:                 Maybe I should go to college and major in psychology for love-spurned cheerleaders.

Cut to a dozen pom-poms shaking, obscuring the shot and covering anything behind the poms.

The pom-poms disappear one by one. Cut a mostly deserted classroom.

**Super under shot: Michael Jordan MacKenzie.**

Off-camera Jodie:                 So, Mack, what do you plan to do once you've graduated?

Mack:                                     I don't know what I want to do after I graduate. I plan to go to college. I've already sent out applications and a few of them are interested in me. But I'll be on the football field again. (Pause) Still, I'm going to get an education.

Off-camera Jodie:                 You could always sell ice cream for a living.

Mack:                                     Yeah, I guess I could do that. Become a professional soda jerk. Or even just a plain jerk sometimes. But, you know…

Off-camera Jodie:                 What?

Mack:                                     There's one thing I guess I would like to do.

Off-camera Jodie:                 What's that?

Mack:                                     Take you to the prom. 

Off-camera Jodie:                 Are you asking me?

Mack:                                     I am. Would you care to give me an answer?

Off-camera Jodie:                 I've never known why you'd prefer to go out with me when you could go out with one of the cheerleaders.

Mack:                                     Maybe because they don't interest me as much as a certain Nubian sexy young woman does.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Maaaaacck, someone's going to hear.

Mack:                                     Maybe, but by then it'll be too late. What say? Will you go to the prom with me?

Off-camera Jodie:                 Well, since you asked me so nicely – yes. I'll go. But that still doesn't address what you plan to do after you graduate high school.

Mack:                                     Well, I'm hoping us going to the prom leads to more and more dates until finally we shack up.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Maaaaacck!

Mack:                                     Okay, okay, we'll just make out in my car instead.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Maaaaacck!

Mack and Jodie are grinning as she puts the camera down and kisses him.

Cartoon lips smooch across the screen, covering everything up. 

Cut to the hallway again. The camera is already focused on one young woman in pig tails. She is getting some books out of her locker.

**Super under shot: Stacy Rowe.**

Off-camera Jodie:                 Hi, Stacy. How about you? What do you plan to do once you're out of high school?

Stacy looks at Jodie and her camera. She thinks for a moment, a sly smile coming to her face.

Stacy:                                     I want to do something where I'll be recognized for my own merits. Something big.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Any idea as to what?

Stacy:                                     Not yet. I guess I'll have to learn all I can be first.

**Cut to MS of John Cleese, from Monty Python show, saying, "And now, for something completely different…"**

Cut to Jodie walking down a hall. There are plenty of students around. She is carrying the camera by hand. Jane runs up behind her. Daria walks up behind Jane, taking her own time.

**Super under shot: Jane Lane – again.**

Jane:                                       Jodie! I'm ready!

Jodie:                                      Ready for what?

Jane:                                       I've got my answer for what I'm going to do once I get out of Lawndale High.

Jodie:                                      Didn't we go over this earlier?

Jane:                                       Aw, c'mon. You know I was just joking around.

Jodie:                                      Well, it is for posterity.

Daria:                                      What was that about someone's posterior?

Jodie and Jane ignore the comment as Jodie puts the camera on her shoulder.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Okay, Jane. So what are you going to do once you graduate?

Jane:                                       Well, I've given this a lot of thought and I know it's going to take its toll on me, but it's something I've got to do. (Pause) I'm going to moon New Jersey.

Off-camera Jodie:                 What?

Jane:                                       You know, moon New Jersey. I'm going to drive to the state line, drop my pants and point my can towards the Garden State. 

(Transcriber's Note:** I didn't do this, but I know someone who did!**)****

Off-camera Jodie:                 Jane, be serious!

Jane:                                       You've got to be kidding. I've just spent four years in Lawndale High. If you can't laugh about that, what can you laugh at? Besides, what else do I have to look forward to?

Off-camera Jodie:                 The rest of your life?

Jane:                                       Oh, yeah. That's when I'll be going to each city in New Jersey and mooning them as well.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Why me, Lord? Why me?

Daria:                                      Because you let yourself get set up for it?

Off-camera Jodie:                 Okay, Daria, we'll try to do yours again. You feel like answering this time?

**Super under shot: Daria Morgendorffer.**

Daria:                                      No.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Tough. I'm filming anyway. So what do you want to do when you graduate?

Daria:                                      Leave.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Daria, why don't you want to answer this question?

Daria:                                      Because it's bad enough I have to think in this building for the pleasure of my teachers, but now you want me to think about future teachers as well? I don't think so.

Cut to Dennis Miller, on the SNL news set, looks straight at the camera, screams and pulls his hair. He then laughs. 

Cut to different hallway. The camera is walking towards someone at her locker. The angle of the shot is different than the way Jodie was walking previously.

**Super under shot: Tiffany Blum-Deckler.**

Off-camera Jodie:                 Tiffany?

Tiffany covers a bottle and quickly puts it in her locker before answering in a tone that is a little more coherent than her normal drawl.

Tiffany:                                  What? What did you see? I wasn't doing anything.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Calm down, Tiffany. 

Tiffany:                                  What's with the camera? Are you filming me? Am I going to be in the news again?

Off-camera Jodie:                 Tiffany, I…

Tiffany:                                  Because if I am, I just want to state for the record that I wasn't doing anything that I'm not supposed to.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Tiffany, are you okay?

Tiffany:                                  Why do you ask?

Off-camera Jodie:                 Are you still upset over the astronomy field trip?

Tiffany:                                  Who wants to know? It's my parents, right? They want you to tell them what I'm doing. I'm okay, mom!

Off-camera Jodie:                 Tiffany, all I was going to do was ask you what you planned to do once you got out of school.

Tiffany:                                  Oh. Go shopping, of course.

Off-camera Jodie:                 I meant, after you graduated, Tiffany.

Tiffany:                                  I always go shopping after I get out of school, Jodie. 

Off-camera Jodie:                 Are you by chance related to Kevin Thompson?

Tiffany:                                  Ask Sandi. She'll tell you that I go shopping at Cashman's.

Off-camera Jodie:                 I meant, after you graduated as a senior and weren't coming back to Lawndale High.

Tiffany:                                  Oooooohhhh.

Off-camera Jodie:                 So what do you think you'll do?

Tiffany:                                  Go shopping. At a larger store.

Cut to LS of rock musician on stage, smashing his guitar until it is little more than strings on a stick.

Cut to library. Camera is walking towards some girls at a table.

**Super under shot: Sandi Griffin.**

Sandi:                                     Uh, oh. Geek patrol.

Off-camera Jodie:                 You know, I still remember you calling me that back in Junior High, Sandi. You remember Junior High, _don't_ you? Back when we were in the same grade?

Sandi scowls but doesn't say anything.

Off-camera Jodie:                 What was that nickname you had back then? Wasn't it Snobalofigu…

Sandi:                                     What do you want, _Jodie_?

Off-camera Jodie:                 I want to finish my assignment for the time capsule. To do that, I want to know what you plan to do once you graduate?

Sandi:                                     (Smirks) I thought that was apparent. I'm going to college, marry a rich man who knows how to treat me as a lady, and then live happily ever after.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Ever after what?

Sandi:                                     What?

Off-camera Jodie:                 You know, after you get married. Then what?

Sandi:                                     I told you, I'll live _happily_.

Off-camera Jodie:                 But doing what?

Sandi:                                     I don't know. _Wife_ stuff.

Stacy:                                     Isn't that what your mom did, Sandi?

Sandi:                                     No comment.

Off-camera Jodie:                 That was your father's first wife, right?

Sandi:                                     I said, no comment.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Look, I'm no expert here or anything, Sandi, but you might want to rethink your end goals. You might be happier in the long run.

Sandi:                                     Thanks for the _suggestions_. I'll have my _staff_ take them into consideration. C'mon, Tiffany, Stacy. I'm leaving.

Cut to black and white footage. A lady in a dress, stares at a giant robot with a visor on its face. She says, "Gort! Clatto! Verata! Nicto!"

Cut to a hallway, outside of a classroom. Jodie is with two guys.

**Super under shot: Joey Green and Jeff Bonder with arrows pointing to each.**

Joey:                                       I'm going to ask Quinn to go out with me!

Jeffy:                                      No, you're not because I'm going to ask Quinn to go out with me!

Joey:                                       No you won't! You won't be able to with broken teeth!

Jeffy:                                      That's what you think!

Joe and Jeff begin fighting.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Um, guys, don't you think Quinn will want you to do more than simply ask her out after you graduate next year?

They stop fighting.

Joey:                                       Hey, yeah. I think I'll ask her to go steady with me!

Jeffy:                                      She won't do it – because she'll already be going steady with me!

Joey and Jeffy begin fighting again.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Don't you two ever think of anything else?

They stop fighting.

Jeffy:                                      Sure. Football.

Off-camera Jodie:                 I had to ask.

Joey:                                       And… Quinn!

Jeffy:                                      Quit thinking about my girlfriend!

Joey:                                       Your girlfriend? One day she's going to be my wife!

Jeffy:                                      No she won't! I'm the one who always gets her the star-shaped ice and she'll remember me and marry me!

Joey:                                       You? I thought that was Jamie?

Jeffy:                                      Whatever! He's not here so he's out of the picture! Quinn's my girl, not yours!

Off-camera Jodie:                 Um, have either of you asked her out to the prom yet?

Joey and Jeffy, nearly at blows with one another, stop and stare at the camera. Realization dawning, they run off.

Joey:                                       Quinn?! Hey, Quinn – I need to ask you something!

Jeffy:                                      Never mind him, Quinn! I need to ask you something!

Jodie stops filming.

Jodie:                                      I thought I'd never be able to get rid of those two morons.

**Cut to Ren & Stimpy cartoon where Ren is choking Stimy. "You ignorant sack of bloated protoplasm!" yells Ren. **

**Cut to empty classroom again.**

**Super under shot: Jamie White.**

Off-camera Jodie:                 I'm with Jamie White, a junior this year. What do you want to do when you graduate?

Jamie looks thoughtfully at the camera before answering.

Jamie:                                     I want to make a difference in the world.

Off-camera Jodie:                 What kind of difference?

Jamie:                                     A positive difference.

Off-camera Jodie:                 No, what I mean is, what is it that you plan to do?

Jamie:                                     I'm not quite sure. I only know that I don't want to play football and kick back on a couch for the rest of my life guzzling beer.

Jodie takes the camera off her shoulder and turns the top mounted light off. 

Jodie:                                      How are you holding up, Jamie?

Jamie:                                     I'm getting by. (He gives an encouraging smile)

Jodie:                                      Good luck, then.

Jamie:                                     Thanks. You too. What are you going to do when you graduate?

Jodie:                                      You know, I really don't know.

**Cut to full screen shot of flag waving in breeze. No sound.**

**Cut to outside front doors of school (seen behind interviewee).**

**Super under shot: Quinn Morgendorffer.**

Off-camera Jodie:                 Thanks for meeting me here, Quinn.

Quinn:                                    Oh, no problem. It was the least I could do after you managed to get Joey and Jeffy detention for the fight they started in the cafeteria. I mean, I don't even know what got into them, asking me to the prom on this short notice. As if I haven't been asked even though it's a month away. I'd sure like to know who put that idea in their heads.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Um, yeah. So, even though you're a junior this year and won't be graduating until next year, what do you think you'll do with the rest of your life?

Quinn:                                    You know, I haven't totally decided yet. 

Off-camera Jodie:                 No ideas at all?

Quinn:                                    I've got some. I'm working on getting my grades up so I can go to college. But I will tell you this – I won't be saving all the cute fluffy bunnies in the world. I worked at an animal farm a few weekends over last summer and found out that bunnies aren't that nice all the time. And they leave a mess if you're not looking. I'm not going to be cleaning that up anytime soon if I can help it. Not again.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Okay, if I've got this right, you're saying college is in and cute fluffy bunnies are out.

Quinn:                                    Yeah, pretty much. Say, are you getting my good side with your camera?

Cut to a knight in armor charging on foot towards a bunch of rocks. Suddenly, a small white fluffy bunny leaps from the ground and bites his head off. He screams as he dies. An old wizard in tattered robes says, "See, I told you it was a killer rabbit!"

Cut to interior of classroom. A red-head boy is putting some things away on a cart with a TV and VCR.

Super under shot: Charles Ruttheimer, III.

Off-camera Jodie:                 (Mutters) The one I've been dreading. (Louder) Charles? 

Charles stops loading the equipment, noticing the camera for the first time. He comes out from behind the cart to get a better look at Jodie.

Upchuck:                               Yes, my sweet? Is there anything I can do for you, or to you for that matter?

Off-camera Jodie:                 You mean other than stop revolting me with your bad dialog?

Upchuck:                               Ah, but that would take all the fun out of our relationship, wouldn't it?

Off-camera Jodie:                 We have a relationship? Does Mack know that?

Upchuck:                               You wouldn't be coming around asking about what I plan to do after graduation now, would you?

Off-camera Jodie:                 Yeah.

Upchuck:                               Then let me assure you and those watching this years from now that your honor has always been safe. At least, I haven't done anything to sully it.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Not for lack of trying.

Upchuck:                               True. But then, who would blame me?

Off-camera Jodie:                 I'm not sure. Was that a compliment, Charles?

Upchuck smiles but says nothing.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Okay, here's the question. What do you plan to do once you graduate and grow up?

Upchuck:                               Join a monastery.

Off-camera Jodie:                 You're kidding.

Upchuck:                               You're right, I am. I don't think I'd last a day in one of those before they kicked me out.

Off-camera Jodie:                 So what're your plans?

Upchuck:                               Go to college, see the world. Get as far away from my father as I can.

Jodie lowers the camera.

Jodie:                                      I hear that. Let me know how it turns out. Good luck.

Jodie extends her hand for a handshake. Charles takes it and they shake. He then leans in for a kiss and she decks him with the camera.

Jodie:                                      Sorry, Charles. Old habits.

Upchuck:                               S'alright. I'm used to it. 

**Cut to an ambulance screeching through the streets, its siren blaring loudly.**

**Cut to school teacher's office.**

**Super under shot: Mr. Anthony DeMartino.**

Mr. DeMartino:                    What do I PLAN to do once I GET OUT OF THIS STINKING HELL HOLE OF A SCHOOL, Miss LANDON? That's easy! I'm going to start practicing KICKBOXING as a WAY TO CONTROL a little nervous TICK I'VE PICKED up while working here!

Off-camera Jodie:                 Don't you think you're a little…

Mr. DeMartino:                    A little WHAT?

Off-camera Jodie:                 A little old?

Mr. DeMartino:                    OF COURSE! That's the beauty of it! I get to PRACTICE with some YOUNGSTERS who look like KEVIN THOMPSON and then get TO KICK THE CRAP OUT OF THEM! HA, HA, HA, HA!

Off-camera Jodie:                 Don't you think they might kick you instead, Mr. DeMartino?

Mr. DeMartino:                    They might try, but after my stint in the MARINES, I don't give THEM MUCH of a CHANCE to tag ME before I BUST HEADS. HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA!

Off-camera Jodie:                 Oooohhhhh-kaaaaaayyyy. I'm out of here. Thanks, Mr. DeMartino. Have fun on the practice mats this summer!

**Cut to two Rock-M Sock-M robots punching each other. One finally gets in a shot to knock the other's head up.**

**Cut to Lawndale hallway.**

Jodie is seen walking through the hallways, her video camera by her side. The electronic blackboard goes to a split screen, one view from the Li cameras showing Jodie walking, the other screen showing the perspective from Jodie's camera which is still on. Jodie is consulting a notebook, using a pencil to check things off it.

Jodie:                                      Let's see, I got most of the senior student body, some of the juniors…

Jodie is walking towards a hallway intersection. She gets to it and turns right. The hallways are deserted. She hears something. The Li camera view shows Ms. Li standing the middle of a corridor. She is talking into a mini cassette recorder.

Ms. Li:                                    Note to self, consider using Jock Alley lockers for time capsule. Put behind the lockers if at all possible. That way if I'm ever charged, I'll have easy access to it while out on bail…

Jodie:                                      Ms. Li?

Ms. Li:                                    (Quickly shuts off recorder and puts it in pocket) Ah, Miss Landon. How goes your project for the money proj… er, I mean, time capsule?

Jodie:                                      Okay. I'm nearly done. I'm thinking of interviewing some teachers for this as well.

Ms. Li:                                    Splendid! Splendid! The more the merrier I suppose.

Jodie:                                      Would you like to be on it?

Ms. Li:                                    Why not?

Electronic blackboard goes to full shot of Ms. Li.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Ms. Li, what are you going to do once school is out?

**Super under shot: Ms. Angela Li, Principal.**

Ms. Li:                                    Have this place fumigated!

Cut to LS of Tyrannosaurus Rex from Caveman movie. Full body view. It stops walking, stops, sniffs the air and cocks its head, letting out a loud, "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" like a rooster.

Cut to classroom. Teacher is standing behind his desk.

**Super under shot: Mr. Timothy O'Neil.**

Mr. O'Neil:                            Well, that's a very interesting question you pose, Jodie. I'm not sure how to answer it.

Off-camera Jodie:                 How about answering it today?

Mr. O'Neil:                            Certainly, certainly. I guess I'd have to say I just might get married one day to the woman of my dreams.

Screen wipe by a series of clouds coming onto the picture, and then leaving.

Cut to another classroom, science equipment nearby. Teacher is standing next to lit Bunsen burner, a copy of MensWorld magazine held by tongs, now burning.

**Super under shot: Ms. Janet Barch.**

Ms. Barch:                             I guess I'm going to tell Skinny he'd better get on the ball and make me an honest woman! I swear, if women had to wait around for a man to propose… not that I'm saying you need a MAN to make you complete, Jodie. Not that at all!

Off-camera Jodie:                 I understand, Ms. Barch.

**Cut to vehicle General Lee from Dukes of Hazzard show jumping… something (it doesn't matter). Voice screaming, "Yeee-haaaa!" is heard.**

Cut to school library. It is late in day. Most everyone is gone.

Jane:                                       Daria, check it out. Landon's back with the camera.

Daria:                                      I'm out of here.

Jane:                                       I thought she'd have finished this assignment by now. She started this, what? Last month? Wait on – you still haven't given her an answer yet, have you?

Daria:                                      What do you think?

Jane:                                       I think we should go talk to her.

Daria:                                      Are you planning on tormenting her some more?

Jane:                                       What is that – a trick question or something? C'mon, let's go have some fun.

Jane gets up from the table and heads towards Jodie.

Jane:                                       Jodie! Jodie, wait up! I've got a real answer for you this time.

Jodie:                                      Forget it, Jane.

Jane:                                       C'mon, Landon. I'm serious this time.

Jodie:                                      Oh yeah? What are you going to say? That you're going to grow up and rob banks as an artistic expression which is probably covered somewhere the Constitution?

Jane:                                       Hey, that's not bad… but, no, that's not it.

Jodie:                                      How about, you're going to learn to ride a 10-foot tall unicycle and tour America on it.

(**Transcriber's note:** You guessed it, I knew someone who did this as well. Well, at least tried to, but after riding 3 blocks, he fell off and cracked a bone in his forearm. And that was the end of that.)

Jane:                                       Seems kind of tame.

Jodie:                                      Topless.

Jane:                                       Now you're talking. But, no.

Jodie:                                      You going to harass me with some weird answer again?

Jane:                                       Jodie, you've got to learn to trust me. Of course I am.

Jodie gets a quizzical look on her face, then smiles at the absurdity of it. She lifts the camera up and starts filming.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Okay, Jane. Let's try this again. Whatdaya want to be when you grow up?

Jane:                                       Well, I'm thinking of going into psychology.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Really? That sounds a little ambitious of you, Jane. What brought that on?

Jane:                                       I thought I could get to a point where I'd learn how to get people to do my bidding. Failing that, I could at least learn how to torment them and know which buttons to push in order to take them over the edge. You know, it would be kind of like studying to take some Evil Overlord exams. How else am I going to take over the world?

(**Transcriber's note:** Last time. There's actually a web site devoted to the rules of being an Evil Overlord. Check it out at: http://minievil.eviloverlord.com/index.html I like to think that Jane actually contributed to this site. I wanted to contribute but the site is no longer maintained. Still, here are a couple of my contributions:

**My Fortress of Doom will be built in one of the most inhospitable places on the planet such as on a polar ice cap and fully staffed at all times.  It will also be lined with plenty of explosives put there when the fortress engineers weren't looking.  That way when the hero and his Forces Of Good attack _and take the fortress, I can safely blow it up via remote control while relaxing in my condo on Maui._**

and

**I will never tie the hero to the railroad tracks at 10am and wait for the 5:02 express to kill him.  Even though the hero is securely tied, he has plenty of time to call his sidekick / girlfriend / horse / companion / dog to the rescue who will surely untie the knots with their hands / hoofs / paws / teeth.  Instead, I will go ahead and tie him to the tracks, then immediately kill him and let the train make mincemeat of him later on.  This way the carnivorous forest creatures will have a meal on me – after all, even evil overlords have a soft spot in their otherwise hard hearts for the creatures of the forest.**)****

Off-camera Jodie:                 Very funny, Jane. 

Jane:                                       Okay, okay, how about this: I'm going to paint portraits for a living.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Well, at least that's doing something with your talent…

Jane:                                       Of course, it'll be portraits of nude animals, but you've got to create your niche somewhere.

Off-camera Jodie:                 I knew there had to be a catch somewhere. 

Jane:                                       There always is.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Are you ever going to answer my question with a serious response?

Jane:                                       No. What's the point? If I don't go to college, I guess I'll just find some job around town and keep living with Trent until the house falls down.

Off-camera Jodie:                 So, are you going to college?

Jane:                                       I'll have to get back to you on that.

Off-camera Jodie:                 That's what I thought. Go away, Jane.

Jodie stops the camera and puts it down. Grinning, Jane starts to leave. Jodie's smile evaporates as she puts the camera on the table and starts unloading her backpack, looking for a notebook. The absurdity of the moment is gone, replaced by her regular school schedule.

Jane:                                       You coming, Daria?

Daria:                                      In a minute. I'll meet you by the front entrance.

Jane:                                       Later.

Daria:                                      You okay, Jodie?

Jodie:                                      What do you care?

Daria:                                      Um, I don't like to see people hurt?

Jodie:                                      My, what an amazing un-sarcastic remark you made.

Daria:                                      I think I'll just…

Jodie:                                      What could be on the mighty Daria's mind to not take a few minutes out of her day to criticize me and my project? 

Daria:                                      I think I'll leave before either of us says anything we'll regret.

Jodie:                                      Regret? I'll tell you what I regret. I regret signing up for this stupid project! I regret not writing a story like everyone else. I thought this would be a more creative way to do a project and get people interested, but no. I keep ending up with crap answers, bubble headed jocks, and pervs trying to score on me for a sound bite.

Daria:                                      Then why don't you just call the project finished and be done with it?!

Jodie:                                      Because I need at least one more interview from the senior class before Ms. Li will sign off on it. And look who I'm talking to.

Daria:                                      Don't even think it.

Jodie:                                      Too late, Daria. I want to finish this and you're here.

Jodie picks up the camera and turns it back on.

Off-camera Jodie:                 So tell me what I want to know, Daria. Otherwise I'm not going to quit filming, and instead I think I'll just follow you around and around until I get the footage I want.

Daria:                                      Fine, Jodie. You want to know what I want to be when I grow up?

Off-camera Jodie:                 That is the **gist** of these interviews!

Daria:                                      Okay, then. Here it is. You don't care what I say as long as it makes good TV. You want to know if I'm going to say that I'm going to become a famous writer. Or become a chemist and find a way to synthesize fuel. Or become a geneticist and successfully clone living organs. You want to know all these things regardless of whether or not I feel like telling you. Well, I've got news for you. I don't feel like telling anyone what I'm going to do with my life.

Off-camera Jodie:                 Why not?

Daria:                                      Why should I? It's my decision and I don't want to feel as if I'm trapped if I say it, like I'm not meeting anyone's expectations. Gee, Daria, you said you were going to be a famous writer when you were older but all you are is a hack. So what? What if I enjoy being a hack? Who cares? But to get you out of my hair, I'll tell you what you want to know. No games this time. You want to know what I want to be when I grow up? Here's my answer! **Not alone!**

Jodie turns the camera off and looks at Daria.

Jodie:                                      Gee, Daria, I didn't mean…

Eyes slightly narrowed, a cross expression on her face, Daria holds out her left hand.

Daria:                                      Camera.

Jodie:                                      What?

Daria:                                      Camera. Your turn.

Jodie:                                      Um, what?

Daria:                                      You spent the last several weeks hounding me to tell you what I wanted. Now it's your turn.

Jodie:                                      Um, I really don't have any plans.

Daria:                                      Don't tell me. Tell the camera. Now hand it over.

Jodie hands over the camera to Daria.

Off-camera Daria:                 So what do you want to be when you grow up, Jodie?

Jodie:                                      Not on camera.

Off-camera Daria:                 Funny. Now give.

Jodie:                                      Daria…

Off-camera Daria:                 I know how to operate a camera, Jodie, and I can delete my interview at any time. Give me what the camera wants or else.

Jodie:                                      That's blackmail.

Off-camera Daria:                 No it's not. It's extortion. C'mon, give.

Jodie:                                      I don't know what I want.

Off-camera Daria:                 I figured that. So c'mon. Make something up. Go wild. Live a little. What does the inner Jodie want out of life?

Jodie:                                      Freedom.

Off-camera Daria:                 Sounds like you need to study the law. In case you haven't already noticed, you're already free.

Jodie:                                      Not from my father. Or mother.

Off-camera Daria:                 You'll be going away to college.

Jodie:                                      So? They'll be choosing my course work.

Off-camera Daria:                 Jodie, if you don't stand up for your freedom, you'll never get it. They can only control you as much as you let them.

Jodie:                                      Maybe. Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a cheerleader?

Off-camera Daria:                 Hey, your religious beliefs are your own business.

Jodie:                                      No, really. When I was a freshman here, I met Brittany and we seemed to hit it off. It was nice to have a friend.

Off-camera Daria:                 Especially one you didn't have to impress?

Jodie:                                      You should know, misery chick.

Off-camera Daria:                 Touché. 

Jodie:                                      She was someone who I could just be myself with. And the way she talked about cheerleading all the time – it sounded fun.

Off-camera Daria:                 So what happened?

Jodie:                                      I told my dad I wanted to try out and he refused to let me, saying I'd never get into student government if I had a cheerleader background. My mother agreed and they refused to let me try out. And that was that. 

Off-camera Daria:                 Do you think you would have been happier as a cheerleader than as a student council member?

Jodie:                                      I don't know. I'd like to think so.

Off-camera Daria:                 But in reality?

Jodie:                                      In reality, probably not. I think I would've enjoyed doing the routines during the games, going to practice, and even hanging around with Brittany every now and then. But hanging around the rest of the cheerleaders didn't look much fun.

Off-camera Daria:                 So then why regret something that you wouldn't have enjoyed?

Jodie:                                      Oh, I'm not regretting not being a cheerleader. I'm regretting that it wasn't my **choice**. You know what I mean?

Off-camera Daria:                 More than you know.

Jodie:                                      It's just that I wish my mom and dad weren't always there making all my decisions. You have to do _this_ after school, you have to do _that_ summer job. It gets old.

Off-camera Daria:                 That's weird. I've wanted my parents in my life and you've wanted your parents out of your life.

Jodie:                                      Trust me, I'd trade places with you any time.

Off-camera Daria:                 So what will you do next? If you're going into college, you could always try out for a cheerleader spot.

Jodie:                                      No. I don't think I'd like to do that now.

Off-camera Daria:                 So then what?

Jodie:                                      I'm thinking… I'll get a degree in business.

Off-camera Daria:                 That sounds like your father talking.

Jodie:                                      I'm going to learn everything I can and then come back here and do a hostile takeover of my father's company in order to fire him.

Off-camera Daria:                 Now that's the Jodie I've come to know over the years.

Daria puts the camera down. Jodie is smiling at the prospect of coming back to town to fire her father. She holds out her hand. Daria puts the camera on it.

Jodie:                                      Thanks, Daria.

Daria:                                      Don't mention it. Especially if anyone asks.

Jodie:                                      I won't. I'll let the footage speak for itself.

Daria:                                      Damn.

**ZZZZRRRRPPP**

**The End**

**Location: History 363. **

**Time: Now.**

The electronic blackboard shut off and the room lights automatically came up.

Nick:                                       Talk to me. What did you get out of all of these interviews, especially after what we've read about the authors?

Kara:                                       I've had one thought come to mind the entire time.

Nick:                                       What's that?

Kara:                                       That people don't stick to the labels we put on them.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Clarify your position.

Kara:                                       I read the yearbook and saw some captions about a few of the people we read about. Brittany Taylor was labeled a cheerleader, a brainless blonde and basically good for nothing but baby making. But she turned out opposite from that, didn't she? Then there was Stacy Rowe – pegged as a follower, set for life as a secretary or something. But she broke out of that mold. Sandi Griffin – money and looks didn't stop her from going to the streets, did it?

Nick:                                       Actually, that's very perceptive of you, Kara. I think you really hit something there. So where is the author, or in this case, the interviewer now?

Kara:                                       That's Dan's responsibility.

Dan:                                        Some of this was easy to get. Jodie Landon graduated top of her class in May, 2002. She went to college and graduated top of her class in business administration. She then continued to Harvard graduate school to get a law degree. There, she didn't finish at the very top but was still in the top ten which was good enough for the law firm that hired her. After law school, she moved to Washington D.C. to work in a law firm where she met her future husband, Justin McMillian. Two years after they met, they married.

                                                At age 27 she got pregnant. The law firm she and her husband worked in laid her off during her pregnancy. The unofficial decision for this was that she wasn't pulling her weight with the other junior partners. This was despite having just landed several large accounts for the firm.

                                                Now this next part is supposition on my part. This was an old chum firm. Nepotism ruled rampant. She wasn't going to get anywhere with them anyway. However, when they laid her off citing her pregnancy as an issue, that was a major problem on their end as it was against the law. They'd done it with other employees in the past and nothing ever came of it I found out, but Jodie wasn't going to sit back and let it happen to her. Besides, she was very good at documenting all her actions.

                                                Fact: she sued her former employers, and won. From what I was able to gather, they opted to settle with her instead of appealing the verdict as they found out she was working on a movie script about her ordeal. And they didn't want the bad publicity.

Nick:                                       How'd you find that out, Dan?

Dan:                                        I had to use the Freedom **from** Dis-Information act to get her former employers to stem the information overload. You listen to them, Jodie did everything from represent clients to curing cancer.

John:                                      Did you actually get the information you needed immediately?

Dan:                                        No. I had to use Line Betweeners, Inc. to sift it. Turns out that wasn't the only time I used their service either.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    People, we're getting off track here. Dan, please continue.

Dan:                                        Anyway, after Jodie got her settlement, she and her husband immediately went into private practice out of state, essentially representing "the little guy" against corporate America.

Geoff:                                     Corporate traitor.

Dan:                                        Not really. I think she had an agenda. The McMillian's started a firm and within a couple years had 20 employees working it. Currently they represent approximately 60 clients a year in court cases. While that doesn't seem like a large number, what happened with her later in life is far more interesting. Officially, Jodie McMillian touts herself as a stay-at-home grandmother of 4 children and 9 grandchildren. She also serves as a volunteer on her county's water board. It's this water board that piqued my interest. You see, about 19 years ago Mrs. McMillian was entering the courthouse with her client when they were ambushed.

Yui:                                         Let me guess. By the mob?

Dan:                                        Actually, no. It was by reporters. And reporters being reporters, they naturally jostled each other for position in order to get a clip of either of them. The 49-year old lawyer was bashed around and eventually lost her step, fell and broke her hip. She did get an artificial hip and supposedly found criminal law didn't hold as much interest for her anymore. At least, that's what her bio said.

                                                But staying at home must have been a little boring as she began to work on the West Kansas water board shortly after her 50th birthday as a free legal eagle. And she's probably why they have so many water rights from other states' now. With the re-selling of water and the continued good crops West Kansas has had for the past two decades, they now have so much money coming in from other sources that they reduced the state income tax to practically nothing.

Amy:                                      Where did you find out all this?

Dan:                                        Freedom from Dis-Information Act, remember? It cost me plenty to get the information deciphered. Anyway, West Kansas repealed their state tax about 10 years ago which angered East Kansas politicians who relied on that revenue to no end and whose governor threatened to invade their neighbors.

John:                                      He go through with it?

Dan:                                        Of course not. He didn't go through with the invasion as Mrs. McMillian sent in a legal strike team to sue the pants off the East Kansas governor. It not **only** worked, it worked so well that no other neighboring state dares to refuse in dealing with them.

Bridget:                                  Sounds like she's using a corporate power strategy maneuver.

Dan:                                        I kind of think so as well. If I had to guess, I'd say that Jodie McMillian has a firm hand in indirectly controlling East Kansas. And from what I saw of personnel records, Jodie's stocked East Kansas' legal departments with a lot of high talent. If I were a betting man, I'd say she's ready to legally take over another state very soon. My guess is Mississippi. Reason: there's a lot more water to get.

Rose:                                      She sounds power-hungry.

Dan:                                        I know what you mean. It's hard to think that the person I'm describing has also done positive things for the country as well, such as being instrumental in the Data Cleanup Act of 2024, which wiped out unused web pages, long server tie ups and faulty links worldwide.

Nick:                                       Anything else?

Dan:                                        Bad karma on her end was being a part owner of a casino on a Dakota reservation. That was just after opening her law firm. It lasted about two years before they went belly up due to mismanagement and being unable to pay out a big winner. The gaming commission yanked their license.

Bob:                                        Ouch. That had to hurt.

Dan:                                        I think it did, financially. I think that's why she stayed in criminal law as long as she did as well.

Nick:                                       Great job, you two. Well researched. Who wants to volunteer for next week?

Two hands raise.

Nick:                                       Amy, Austin, you're up next week. And Naomi, I'd watch out doing your homework on Mrs. Whitmore's time.

**_NEXT:                                   Stacy's story: Fashion Hell._**

Contact me:

jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2002 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen). 

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed. Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you. A coincidence! To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real. Or could it? I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	13. Stacy's Story Fashion Hell

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories! **

**Fashion Hell**

**by Stacy Rowe**

**(translated by: Steven A. Brown)**

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, it wasn't stormy, at least not yet. But it was dark. There were plenty of storm clouds to make sure of that. I could tell how dark it was instantly as Tiffany's room had a west view and instead of a nice sunset it was pitch black outside.

I turned my gaze from the window back to the meeting. It was the last Fashion Club meeting. The very last. We were doing this as a summary to wrap it up in case someone else ever wanted to follow in our footsteps. As usual, I was taking the notes.

But then… there was a noise from downstairs. An odd noise. I looked around. Sandi was going on about what she was going to do with her summer and the types of clothes she thought we should all wear to make her look good. 

But the noise came back. A thump, thump noise. I heard a creak from the stairs. Getting up off the floor where we were all sitting, I walked over to the door and opened it slightly. Someone was on the stairs!

It couldn't be Tiffany's parents – they were gone for the night. I knew I should have told Sandi or Quinn – maybe even Tiffany that someone was coming up the stairs. I was just about to when I caught site of him. It was Jeffy, padding softly up the carpeted flight of stairs. He noticed me looking at him and smiled.

He must have been coming for Quinn. Maybe had a surprise for her.

"Hi," I whispered, not wanting Quinn to catch on.

Jeffy got to the top of the stairs and came over to the door. "Hi, Stacy," he said.

"Do you want me to go get Quinn?" I asked.

"No."

"Tiffany?"  
  


"No," he replied, putting his hand on mine.

"Not… Sandi?"

"No," he caressed the back of my hand with his fingers. "I came to talk to you."

"Me?"

"Of course. I've had my eye on you all year, and…"

"STACY!" Sandi barked. "Didn't you hear what I said?" she fumed.

I blinked back at her, diverting my gaze away from the black clouds outside. Rapidly blinking the image out of my head, I said, "Um… no, sorry. I was just thinking of… um, fashion trends."

"Well, I'm SURE we wouldn't MIND having your attention back with us on this historic occasion," Sandi sneered.

"All the more reason to take official notes," I said under my breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Sandi, nothing." It was all I could do to take down more notes on Sandi's rambling thoughts as she continued to drone on and on. Notes that no one would ever read, much less care about.

*************

An hour later the meeting broke up. It was the last one I'd ever have to take notes on again! I was feeling so good I didn't even give a hoot to the way Sandi had dismissed my ideas during the meeting. After all, what could I have done about it then – she was president and all. But now… now was different. There was no more Fashion Club.

Night had fallen on Lawndale a while back and looking at my watch, I was shocked to see the time. I was supposed to be home a half hour ago. Oh, man, I was going to be in trouble if my parents ever found out.

Quinn was in the lead as we made out way down the stairs. She had that natural bounce that people seemed to gravitate to and that Sandi couldn't emulate. She grabbed her rain coat and opened the front door. It was almost as if on cue that a red car showed up and Joey and Jeffy got out and ran up to the door.

"Hey, Quinn, you need a ride anywhere?" Joey asked.

Jeffy pushed him aside. "Yeah, Quinn, you need to go anywhere?"

"Where's Justin?" Quinn asked.

"Jamie," I corrected.

"Whatever."

"Um, he couldn't make it," Joey supplied.

"So now you only have to decide between the two of us!" Jeffy also supplied, happy at the thought of not having to deal with Jamie.

Quinn sighed and her shoulders dropped ever so slightly. "Okay, I need a lift home. Who wants to take me?"

"Me!" yelled Joey.

"ME!" yelled Jeffy, throwing Joey to the ground.

"I said it first!" Joey replied, kicking Jeffy's leg in so he also fell to the ground.

The two combatants fell upon each other and soon enough, Joey got in a lucky punch and Jeffy went down for the full 10 seconds it took Joey (a bleeding smile showing his victory) to escort Quinn to his car. I couldn't see what they were fighting over as Jeffy then got up and Joey helped him into the backseat since they'd arrived in the same car.

I guess they were fighting over to see who sat in the back seat, away from Quinn.

I watched them drive off. Sigh. No one bled for her. Like I needed them to bleed anyway. Blood on my clothes? Eeeeewwwwwwww. Still, it would have been nice.

Sandi opened the driver's door on her car. "Tiffany, you want to go to the mall?" she asked.

"Suuuurrrrrreeee, Sandi."

"Good. Make sure to bring along your mother's credit card."

"Ooookkkaaaaayyyyyy," Tiffany drawled.

"Um, Sandi," I started. "I can't go to the mall with you. I need to get home."

"That's good, Stacy," Sandi sneered. "Because I don't recall inviting you along. You ready, Tiffany?"

"Yeeeeaaaahhhhh, surrrrreeee. Where are we going again?"

"Do you mind dropping me off at home, Sandi?"

"Like, where's your car, Stacy?"

"At home. You came by and picked me up earlier today, remember?"

"Sorry, Stacy, but I can't take you home as it's out of the way and I have my reputation to think of and shopping that needs being done." And with that, she drove off.

I watched her taillights fade in the distance. In a quiet voice, I said, "But my home is on the way to the mall."

Oh well, it wasn't as if this hadn't happened before. I simply needed to hoof it home from Tiffany's. It wasn't so bad, I thought, setting out. It was still early evening, even if storm clouds were moving closer. The lightning was still some distance off. It was only a mile or so to walk. I was sure Sandi had more important things to do than drop me off at home.

I'd ask her that in school on Monday. She always had a good reason for what she did.

Awww, who was I kidding? I needed new friends.

Fat raindrops started hitting my head and I started jogging, heedless of the perspiration problems excessive exercise gave. Lightning flashed again, this time much closer. I cut through a small park on her way home. I was getting wet. This probably wouldn't have happened if I'd only listened to Sandi and went shopping.

Lightning flashed several times in the sky. The crack-boom of thunder could be heard coming closer, the time between the lightning and the thunder shrinking. That meant the storm was getting closer.

The park I was cutting through wasn't very big – just large enough to plant a lot of trees, have some swings, and a small parking lot near the east side. Lightning came again and this time struck a tree branch, exploding it off the rest of the tree. The branch was on the path I was walking and about 40 feet in front of me. The light was blinding and the noise deafening.

I was sent to the ground by the concussive force of the blast. It sounded like a really loud gunshot, I mused. Rain came much more forcefully, not content on just getting me a little wet, it wanted to thoroughly drench her. I knew my hair was long past salvage-ability now. I was going to need a shower once I got home.

I got up off the grass, which was quickly becoming muddy. No sense in letting my clothes become any more soiled than needed, Sandi always said. I went towards the tree. I'd never seen anything like that before. I'd always seen lightning far off, not close by. Mind you, it wasn't something I wanted to experience again. The tree was a little on fire from the lightning but the rain quickly put it out.

Not all of the tree burned or had been blasted by the lightning. The elm had been over 60 feet high with branches shooting out from all directions. The largest branch seemed to take the brunt of the blast. I knew that since it wasn't attached to the rest of the tree anymore, having been sheered off by the zap of the lightning, and was instead laying propped up to the tree ready to fall. It was a good thing I hadn't taken shelter under the tree.

Cautiously, I made my way up to the branch. It was a big one, close to five feet in diameter. Like Sandi would have ever figured that out. I was so fascinated by my almost brush with death that I nearly missed the shiny object shoved in a hollow of the massive branch. Lightning flashed again and there it was, a shiny box.

Heedless of little furry critters which were most likely cooked well done by now anyway, I reached into the tree branch and pulled out the shiny metal box. It looked a little old with rust starting on the corner mingled with some still shiny flat areas, was about a foot long and half that high, and most importantly, it wasn't locked.

Rain still falling on my head, I opened the lid of the box and saw something I'd never seen before. Muck. A whole lot of it. Whatever had been in the metal box had a lot of muck on it now. The rain started filling up the metal box and I let everything drop to the ground, slightly grossed out by the sight of so much muck. But when the next lightning bolt flared a couple miles away, I noticed something in the muck now littering the ground.

It was a shoe. Looking in the box, she saw another shoe. Still encased in some muck, but it was the shape of a shoe!

Using the notebook pages filled with transcripts of numerous Fashion Club meetings, but which were ruined now that they were water logged, I gathered up the shoes. It was a sign. I was sure of it. That, or it was a great way to get rid of the transcripts.

I ran the rest of the way home, ignoring the rain. I ran up the stairs to my room and grabbed a towel from the bathroom. Ignoring the soiled club notes, I went about cleaning the shoes. The muck fell right off the leather, as if there were some sort of clear coat protective sealant on it – only, I could feel the leather, not a slick surface. No scotch guard or anything. I cleaned both of them as best I could. They were a silvery-white slip on shoe. I couldn't make out the brand, but I didn't care about that… well, not too much anyway. They were in my size!

I slipped them on. Comfortable. That's what immediately came to mind, and it would to you too if you had to wear fashionable women's shoes that pinched your toes. I looked at myself in the mirror and admired what I saw. Those shoes really did make me look pretty good. I'm sure Sandi would have said something demeaning about them, but… you know, why do I even care what she thinks? She's the one who left me to walk home in the rain.

Oooohhhh, just thinking about it makes me wish I could do something to her!

ZZZZIIIMMMMBBBAAAZZZZZOOOOMMMMBBBBAAAA

The room suddenly filled with smoke. At first I thought the house was on fire, but the smoke quickly cleared, especially when the window was opened to give it someplace to go. The only problem with that was I didn't open it. Once the smoke cleared, I saw a large figure standing next to the window.

"Koff Koff Sorry about the smoke, kid. Occupational hazard," he said.

Oh great, a pyromaniac loose in my house. First Sandi, now this! "Eeep!" I let out before catching myself.

"You're not hurt or anything, are you?" he asked, looking at me.

"Eeep!" Oh, no! What was he going to do to me?!

"You bite your tongue or something?"

"Ee… Who are you and what in the world are you wearing **_that_** for?" I asked. It wasn't the fact he was wearing blue jeans rolled up over some black boots, or a white t-shirt under a black leather jacket that got to me. It was the fact he was wearing a black leather cap with goggles on it.

He ignored my pointing finger and said, "I'm the Fashion Fairy of the Silvery Slippers."

"You look more like a jinn."

"It's easier for people to think of me as a Fashion Fairy. The first time I said I was a Fashion jinn, they got confused and asked if I was some kind of liquor. But we're getting off track. I'm here to grant you your three wishes."

"Three wishes?" I replied suspiciously.

"Oh, great. Another one," he muttered. "Yeah, three wishes. You a little hard of hearing? Not four wishes as that is too many. Not just two wishes as that is too few. You get three wishes. Same as anyone who would have found the slippers, cleaned them up and tried them on without knowing who's other feet had been in them."

"Eeeeeeewwwwwwwww."

"Sorry, standard disclaimer for the slippers. Had to say it. So here's the deal, doll-face. You get three wishes. Anything's the limit as long as it's in my power to do it."

"So what can't you do?" I asked.

He grinned at that. "I'll let you know that when we come to it. So whatdaya say? Need a new car? Need a new Edsel?"

"What's an Edsel?"

He looked at me curiously. "Say, what year is it anyway?"

"It's 2002."

"Aw, crap. Stuck in that hole for 48 years. Man, that sucks. Well, no sense crying over deceased customers, I always say."

"Deceased customers?"

"Never mind, baby. So what can I for you? C'mon, I'm itching to use some of that cool mumbo jumbo I always do."

"I'm sorry, but I just can't get into this with you wearing that cap on your head. It's so… ancient, you know?"

He yanked the cap off his bald head. "Better?"

"Yes," I said.

"Fine. Now c'mon, get a-wishing. I've a busy schedule to keep."

"I don't know what to wish for," I admitted.

"Well, you could always go for the downfall of someone. That's pretty popular. Or at least it used to be during the black plague… er, olden times. Good times, good times…" he trailed off.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, nothing. C'mon, there's got to be someone you want to do in, isn't there? Someone you want eyes gouged out, or thrown to the lions in the coliseum?"

"What was that again?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just having a hot flash of nostalgia."

"Well, I do wish that Sandi, Tiffany and Quinn would learn the error of their ways," I said hopefully.

He stopped pacing the room and looked at me with both of his weird eyes. "As powerful as I am, and believe me, I got the power, you still gotta be a little more specific about what it is you want."

I thought about it a little more. "I wish they'd understand what it's like to not be popular!" I wished.

He looked at me again. Then went over to my closet, looked in and snapped his fingers like he just figured something out.

"Got it. Fashion princess. One wish coming up. Zimba-zoomba, and away we go!" He snapped his fingers the same time there was a crack of lightning. Well, the lightning was outside in the rainstorm, but there was lightning!

After a minute I said, "Um, we're still here."

"Yeah?" he replied.

"I thought we were going somewhere."

"Nah, not really. Whatdaya expect? Miracles? Give it some time and invoke my name next time wearing the shoes to get me to come back. Later, toots!" He snapped his fingers again and this time the smoke was back, clouding up the room. I knew instantly that he was gone. It was confirmed by my mother opening the door, causing the smoke to clear.

"Stacy! Have you been smoking in here, young woman?"

"No, mom," I replied.

"Okay, let's have them right now, or you're grounded."

Sighing, I spent the next hour explaining to my mother I wasn't smoking. I only had to take three breath-analyzer tests to prove it. She still didn't believe me. I blamed it all on a faulty wall socket, causing my nightstand lamp to spark. Of course, it didn't help that the lamp still worked. 

*************

The next day was a school day. It was far from normal. For one thing, when I walked outside, Joey and Jeffy were waiting for me.

"Hi, guys. What's up? Quinn not ready?"

Joey looked at me as if I'd said something distasteful. "Who? Oh, I get it. You're joking with us, Stacy. Ha, ha. Funny. You nearly had me going there for a moment. Like I'd go out with a loser."

Jeffy laughed with Joey. "Good one, Stacy. You ready to go to school. I'm driving."

"I was here first," Joey pushed in front of Jeffy. "I'm driving her to school."

"Oh no you're not," Jeffy replied.

"Yes I am!"

"No you're not!"

Pow!

Sock!

Bam!

Ooooouuuffff!

Ouch!

Whap!

Slap!

"Hey, that's not fair!"

"Shut up and take this!"

Smack!

Punch!

It was a dream come true. But I still needed to get to school. "Guys? Guys?! First one up off the ground gives me a ride. Break!"

Joey beat Jeffy up by a fraction of a second. He drove me to school. It wasn't as glamorous as I'd thought it would be since I kept having to take the steering wheel from him when he had to grab more tissues to stop his bloody nose. I don't know how Quinn ever managed.

Eventually we made it to school and the day blurred by. I was greeted by everyone in my classes. My teachers thanked me for coming in and brightening up their day. Joey and Jeffy were attentive to my every need – from sharpening my pencil (which kind of ruined it since it was a mechanical pencil) to getting me lunch. It was simply a fantastic day.

After my last class, Joey and Jeffy escorted me back to my locker. I began putting things away when I noticed these three girls walking up the corridor. They stood out as they dressed like hags with the no combing of hair, clothes that looked as if they slept in them (which I came to find out, they did), and all three smelled of something not very pleasant.

But… they looked familiar. 

While Joey and Jeffy got into a physical argument as to who was going to get me some star-shaped ice, I went to see who these three girls were. I walked up to them when they stopped at some lockers near mine.

"Hi," I said.

They stopped trying to open the one locker they seemed to share and looked at me. I recognized them! It was Sandi, Tiffany and Quinn! They were dressed in rags and looked terrible.

YES!! Three-points at the buzzer! The winning goal! 

"'Scuse us, Stacy," Quinn said meekly. "We won't be around too much longer. I know how our smell makes you set those two ruffians on us."

"Hah?" I asked.

"Stacy," Sandi started, "you're looking exceptionally radiant today. I only wish I could look half as good as you."

Okay, that was more like I wanted.

"Are you going to finish that?" Tiffany asked, pointing to a bag in my locker. I looked at it and remembered it was my lunch from last week.

"No. It's stale. I'll throw it away."

"Dibs!" Quinn barked.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, handing her the bag. Quinn quickly opened it up and started smelling it. Sandi was close by.

Tiffany replied, "You know, Stacy. We're just looking for some food. It's so hard having to look through dumpsters after school."

"Hah?" I asked. "I mean, look through dumpsters?"

Tiffany nodded. "Sure. Ever since all our parents died, our houses burned up, our cars destroyed and our wardrobes burgled, we've been living on the streets since none of our relatives wanted us. You're lucky you're so popular and have parents and clothes and food."

"This wasn't how I wanted things!" Oops, said that out loud. "I mean, why wouldn't any of your relatives want to take you in?"

Sand looked up from the bag. Quinn had already removed the edible portions of it and was dividing it into three equal piles. "They thought we were bad luck. My step-mother's brother took me in but after he was cleaned to the bone by a plague of locusts, his wife threw me out." She paused. "You know, I never did understand how they got into a sealed house in the middle of a snowstorm."

"But don't go pitying us, Stacy," Quinn said, handing out the other portions to Tiffany and Sandi. "We may have to eat other people's trash and live in some cardboard boxes in an alley near Dega street, but that's okay. We're all still alive and that's the greatest treasure of all."

Sandi smiled at Quinn and said, "That, and we're still the best of friends to this day."

Tiffany, Quinn and Sandi engaged in a group hug. They giggled like other normal girl friends. A hand touched my shoulder and elbow. Bemused, I allowed myself to be pulled away from my former three friends by Jeffy and Joey. 

Jeffy said, "Stacy, you've got to stop hanging around those three losers. They're bad for your image."

Joey said, "Yeah, Stacy. Do you want me to go beat them up for you?"

Whereupon Jeffy said, "I'll do it if you need me to, Stacy!"

Whereupon Joey said, "It's my idea, so I'll do the beating!"

Jeffy then replied, "Well, I care for Stacy more than you do!"

Joey then replied, "No you don't!"

Jeffy argued, "Yes I do!"

Joey countered, "Let's just let Stacy decide this. Stacy?"

I finally said, "I'll get back to you boys, okay?" Just then Brooke came up. Relief.

"Hi, Brooke. Still looking to join the Fashion Club?" I asked, looking for something nice to say.

Brooke had a confused expression on her face. "The Fashion what? Look, I don't know what kind of head games you're trying to play on me, but the Gruesome Twosome are looking for you. Let's go."

"Who're they?" I asked, closing my locker.

Joey whispered urgently in my ear, "Stacy, don't say that. It'll make things worse."

"You know who they are, Stacy," Brooke said. "You gave them that nickname when they first started coming here. C'mon, guys, let's go." I was led to the cafeteria by Brooke. Joey and Jeffy trailed behind me, acting unusually quiet for a couple of rowdy football players. They had nervous expressions on their faces. 

Soon enough, I found myself sitting across from Quinn's sister, Daria, and her friend, Jane. As soon as I sat, Brooke, Joey and Jeffy took off. We were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria and even though it was somewhat populated with the last of the afternoon rush, the tables near us were deserted, as if people were too afraid to sit near this table.

"Where is it, Rowe?" Daria asked while reading a magazine.

"Where's what? And what happened to Quinn?" I asked, looking around at everyone else in the cafeteria. I noticed a lot of curious glances my way, and what I thought were some sympathetic looks.

"Drop the act, Rowe," Jane said, looking at me with her piercing blue eyes.

"What act? What do you want?" What did they want?

"We want our homework. You were supposed to do our homework like I told you to," Daria said.

"What do you mean? What homework? And why me?"

"She acting dumb or is she just that plain stupid?" Jane asked Daria.

Daria replied, "Yes." Then, to me, she said, "You're in serious jeopardy of losing your membership in our club, missy. That could be dangerous. Very dangerous."

"Eeep! I mean, I don't know what you mean."

Daria had an evil glint to her eye as she leaned forward and said, "Just keep in mind that you're only part of our gang because we allow it. Don't mess this chance up again."

"And don't think your looks are going to save you like the last time, Stacy," Jane said, absently flicking a switchblade open and closed again and again. 

Daria gave Stacy an absolutely evil grin that went with her evil glint. "We put those other three losers into fashion hell and we can do the same to you anytime. Now you're going to do my homework right now."

"But I've got a date with Joey and Jeffy now," I protested.

"No, Jane and I have a date with Joey and Jeffy now," Daria corrected. "You're working. Got it?"

Feeling some spunk, I stood up and said, "You know, I wish you two would go to hell."

Suddenly, Daria and Jane were gone in a big ball of smoke. I looked down. I was wearing the silvery slippers.

"Oh, crap," I muttered.

*************

Downwards, the two fell. Through a long and dark tunnel, seamless, and constantly moving. Up, down, all around. It was a very bad amusement park ride. Then, a light at the end of the tunnel. They saw it and were racing towards it. The two were dumped out of the tunnel onto a pile of dirty clothes.

Getting a grip, and putting her glasses back on, Daria looked up at the flashing sign above a couple of doors. It read: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter.

"Well, that's pretty ominous," Jane muttered.

"Tell me about it," replied Daria.

The doors opened and a very fashionable man walked up to them, two other strong arms decked out in classic black following. The two strong arms were as wide as they were tall.

"Well, two more recruits, eh? Smashing," said the fashionable man.

"Who're you," Daria demanded, getting up and brushing soiled socks off her shoulder.

"Well, my dear, how should I put this? Delicately? With you, I don't think so. Ah, I have it. Straight to the point would be best. I'm your worst nightmare."

"You mean the one where I trip and fall on a sidewalk and can't stop myself so I land on my face, shoving my front teeth to the back of my throat, blood coming out everywhere?" Jane asked.

Pause.

"Okay, I'm your second worst nightmare," the man quickly said.

Daria started, "You mean, the one where…"

"Look, let's just say for the sake of argument that I'm one of your worst nightmares and get on with this, okay?!!"

"Sure, sure," replied Daria. "Don't get your panties all bunched up."

The man looked carefully at Daria and Jane. "I can see why you two were sent here," he said evenly.

"Where is 'here' anyway?" Daria asked.

"This… is Hades!" he said triumphantly.

Jane's eyes went wide. "You mean, we're in Hell?"

"No, you're in Hades Department Store, in Highland, Texas."

"We **are** in Hell," Daria replied.

"My name is Lucius Szatin, the store manager, and you two are the new summer interns learning all there is about fashion," he beamed.

"It's still spring," Jane pointed out.

"Semantics, my dear girl. Now, both of you, chop-chop. Time to get to work. I need some employee clothes re-laundered, refolded, and restocked onto the shelves."

*************

I went out with Joey and Jeffy later that night, but my heart wasn't in it so I stood them up at the movie theatre. Sandi would have been proud as it was her classic Ditch-A-Date Move #4. I went home and thought about what happened. It was a lot to digest. I was popular. The scary kids were gone. I needed to be more careful with my wishes.

After all, I only had one more remaining.

The next few days went by quickly, although I noticed a recurring theme. Joey and Jeffy waited for me in the morning and usually beat themselves up. I went to school, was greeted by everyone and made conversation that everyone listed to, some even taking notes. Weird. I did start to notice some of the other kids give me strange looks once word got out that I was the last to see Daria and Jane around school. 

I did hear a rumor that depicted me as having killed them and stuffing their bodies in a shallow grave. I ignored them. Unfortunately, someone else finally heard all this and came looking for me.

I was at my locker after lunch, the J's were elsewhere – looking for a soda now – when Quinn came up.

"Stacy?" she asked. The other two weren't with her. She looked even worse than last time I'd seen her. 

"What's up, Quinn?" I asked civilly, hurrying to get my books ready for next period.

"Sniff I'm hoping you could help me. Have you seen my sister, Daria? Sob She and her friend, Jane, have disappeared."

"I wasn't there," I said quickly. "I didn't see anything."

Quinn started to lose it anyway. Her sniffling increased to all-out bawling. "Boo-hoo-hoo!" she boo-hooed. She came in for a hug, but I kept her at arm's distance. The reason: the smell. Phew!

"C'mon, Quinn, buck up."

"Bwah-hah-hah," she wailed.

"That's the spirit," I attempted to give her some encouragement because, let's face it, she wasn't stopping with the waterworks at all.

"Bwah-hah-hah," she continued. "If anything's happened to my sister, I don't know what I'll do!"

"I heard she kicked you out of your house," I said.

"Sniff That's true, it was a lean year on the streets. But Daria's always been there for moral support! Bwah-hah-hah!"

"I'm sure she's okay, Quinn. It's not like she's going to leave town in order to fashion model mu-mu's or anything."

"Great idea, Stacy. I'll pass it on," the Fashion Fairy whispered to me. I whacked my shoes together to get him to shut up.

"Sniff You think she's okay, Stacy? Thanks, I needed that. If I lost my sister, I don't know what I'd do."

"Get a shower?" I asked without realizing it.

Quinn didn't hear my question. "She was the one who kept me going after my parents died. Sniff Sorry for taking up your valuable time, but… thanks."

Quinn took off and I watched her move down the hall. After she was gone from sight, I thought I'd feel better, but I didn't. Instead, I had this nasty conviction that I needed to set things right. I didn't want to, but I had to.

*********

I got a ride home from school (which Joey paid for with a fat lip) and immediately went to my room. I locked my door (the "smoking" encounter with my mother taught me to lock it from now on) and said, "Okay, Frank, we need to talk."

No answer.

"Fashion Fairy?"

POOOOOOFFFFFF!

"Koff Koff" I coughed, waving my hand to clear the smoke. It didn't work, so I opened the window and got it out a few minutes later. 

"What's up, kid?" Frank asked, lazing on my bed.

"Um… it's about Daria and Jane," I started.

"Oh, you want to know what's going on with them? Great idea, sending them away. I hooked them up with an old friend of mine. You should see what he's got them doing now. It's priceless." He grinned at me.

"Are they okay?" I asked.

"Well…" he started. "Let's put it this way. Right now those two are dealing with 20 precious pre-schoolers screaming, crying and otherwise running around an employee day care. I tell you, Szatin always loved making newbies fill in for the regular providers. Oh, that's good. Jane's chasing two of the little rug-rats who keep stopping only long enough to spray her with a tube of paint."

"How do you know all this?"

"It's complicated."

"Magical stuff, huh?"

"No, not really. Szatin's got the place hardwired with camera's. I'm watching everything through this little remote TV, see?" he said, showing me the TV. Sure enough, Daria and Jane looked alive. Covered in paint and goo, but alive.

"Uh, look, Frank. Fashion Fairy. Whatever. I think I made a mistake wishing them to Hell like that."

"Yeah, so?" he asked, watching his hand-held TV.

"I'd like to get them back. Please?"

"Sorry. No can do. Szatin's got hold of them now. Proprietary claim and all that. How about a nice dress instead?"

"No, I need them back."

"Who put that idea in your head? Those two were losers."

"Look, they're related to my best friend, okay?"

"One of those losers is your friend?"

That's it. No more Miss Nice Girl. "Look, buster. Just because we weren't getting along like you thought doesn't mean we weren't friends. Nor does it make her a loser."

"And yet you wished them all that unhappiness? Some friend you are."

"You know, I don't need this. I don't need your harping nasties on me. Anymore, I wish I'd never joined the fashion club in the first place! That way I wouldn't have walked home from Tiffany's during last week's storm or found the shoes containing you!

"Oy, the words you say. And to think of all the nice things I've done for you. Oh well, your wish…"

RUMMMBBBLLEEEE!!

Lightning flashed through the rain. A loud thunderclap sounded in the distance. The storm was heading out of Lawndale, to the west.

I slowed down from the power walk I was on a few blocks from home. The rain still came down in sheets and I had the muck-covered shoes wrapped in useless fashion notes tucked under my arm. I didn't slow down from being tired or sore. I slowed down to reflect over my latest fantasy.

None of my wishes were working out, I thought. It didn't take long to realize that I still got the short end of the stick on these, even though I was the one controlling the wishes. Deep down, I knew that even if I wished for Quinn to end up in a horrible car accident, one that would leave a nasty scar on her nose, it would probably backfire and make her even cuter.

So what if there wasn't any good outcome? What would I do? I looked down at the shoes under her arms. I guess the first thing I could do was to figure out if there was a fashion fairy to begin with – but anymore, that didn't seem very probable. That was just wishful thinking on my part. 

After all, who was I kidding? These were just some old shoes put in a tree. They certainly didn't represent a hiding place for something called a fashion fairy. 

Dammit! 

Why did I let Sandi walk all over me the way she did? Or Quinn?! It was high time for me to grow up and understand that some things couldn't be changed – like Sandi's grasp for the latest fashion trends that I tell her about.

It would have been nice to have someone on my side for once, to think of me first and not kick me out into the rain. But …there was no such think as a Fashion Fairy. 

The wind was still howling and the rain still coming down, but the drops had lessened in intensity as I walked home. I went up the driveway, then the adjoining sidewalk to the front doors and let myself in. The house was dark as my parents were still out and my brother and sisters were at the sitters. In a way, I was glad none of them were there – I wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone at that moment.

I went to my room, stripped down and took a hot shower to get the chill out. Twenty minutes later, I left the bathroom, fuzzy robe with fluffy slippers on and took another look at the mucky shoes. Figuring I went to all the trouble of bringing them home, I then spent the next 30 minutes cleaning them up.

Other than a little staining, they were a set of ladies size 7 bowling shoes. Figures. With a half smile, I murmured, "So much for the Fashion Fairy."

I sat down on her bed and looked around the room, thinking. An idea was stuck in my head that I couldn't get rid of. Besides, why should I? I'd put it there. Fashion trends that I tell Sandi about – hmmmm. 

An idea blossomed. Smiling, I reached for the phone.

*************

Monday. Springtime. The day was nice, cool and most importantly, not overcast with clouds shooting lightning. It was a wonderful day to have a picture taken.

I walked into school and headed for my locker. I walked past a few people I knew and they waved – then stopped, a shocked expression on their faces. Each and every one had given me the once over like they always did. I had on a powder blue top and tan slacks. My hair was pulled back into a single ponytail. That didn't cause them to stop waving. No, it had something to do with my shoes, I believe. I had walked in wearing the bowling shoes, now cleaned of muck, sanitized (you never know who or what had their feet in it last), and buffed. 

Sandi noticed me right away and took a scowling approach to this flagrant disrespect of fashionism. "Like, **_Stacy_**, what's with the shoes? You did know we're having our pictures taken for the yearbook today, didn't you?" You know, I'd never noticed how she managed to make a question sound like a verbal attack before.

"What do you mean, Sandi?" I asked.

"Where's your **_bowling ball_**, Stacy?" she replied.

"Oh, you mean my shoes. I'm sorry, I thought you knew. I've been reading some articles in Waif saying that bowling shoes were all the rage in the 1950's and that they were making a retro come back into the fashion scene. It said that everyone who was anyone in the fashion circles were starting to wear them."

Sandi had a perplexed grimace on her face. That truthfully could have meant anything from she was thinking to she had to go to the girl's bathroom but didn't want to admit it.

"You remember me telling you about this, right Quinn?" I asked.

Quinn, who had been talking with Joey and Jeffy, looked over to me and replied, "Um, yeah, right. Of course. How could I forget? You were pretty vocal about it."

The class bell rang.

"We'll talk about this later, Stacy," Sandi said, hurrying off to class. It was only after she left that I remembered her classroom was in the opposite direction.

**The end.**

**Location: History 363. **

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                Discussion. Amy? Austin? Tell me about Stacy Rowe.

Amy:                I think she was smart. I only researched her life up through high school and Austin took it from post graduation, but I think she was smart. 

John:                Way to get out of extra work, dude.

Austin:                Whatever.

Elizabeth:                He'd screw your research up, huh?

Amy:                That's what I pretty much thought. 

Bob:                I think those two are having a chemical reaction.

Colin:                Yeah. It's called loathing, Bob.

Bob:                It's still a reaction.

Nick:                People. We're getting off track here. Amy, why'd you think Stacy was smart? I have her transcripts in front of me. They reflected an average student.

Amy:                I thought she was smart just from what I read in the story. True, it reflects some hopes she had and isn't as well written as some of the other author's, but it still showed a flair for style.

Nick:                Example.

Amy:                The biggest example was at the end. Her story had her finding some magical shoes that weren't magical at all. Yet she still managed some magic. I think you'll understand when you see the following. Loading…now.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

**BEGIN VIDEO**

**April 2002.**

**Location: Lawndale High, classroom. Time: afternoon.**

Inside the classroom are Quinn, Sandi and Tiffany. They can all be seen wearing bowling shoes. The door opens and Stacy comes in with a large banner stating 'Fashion Club'. Charles Ruttheimer III comes in after her, a camera hanging from his neck.

Upchuck:                               Okay, ladies, can you gather around this desk for the picture?

Sandi:                                     Make sure you get my good side this time, will you?

Tiffany:                                  Um, mine toooo.

Upchuck:                               Whatever you say, Sandi my dear.

Stacy hangs the banner from the blackboard. Sandi, Tiffany and Quinn are already sitting on the teacher's desk, looking pretty for the camera.

Upchuck:                               Nice footwear, ladies.

Sandi:                                     It's the latest rage, Charles. I'm sure you wouldn't understand it.

Upchuck:                               You'd be surprised what I understand, my sweet. You ready, Stacy?

Stacy:                                     You bet, Charlie.

Stacy was now sitting at the end of the desk. She crossed her legs. She wasn't wearing bowling shoes any longer. Instead, she was now wearing very fashionable shoes.

Upchuck:                               Smile!

FWOOMP. The camera's light illuminated the club members.

Sandi:                                     Stacy! Where are your other shoes?! You're going to ruin the picture!

Stacy:                                     Oh, those? Bowling shoes are passé already. Didn't you hear? So I wore something else.

Sandi's expression showed a new kind of rage.

FWOOMP.

Quinn:                                    Stacy! Why didn't you tell us?

Stacy:                                     I thought you kept informed on fashion tips and trends.

Quinn's expression showed shock and disbelief.

FWOOMP.

Tiffany:                                  Is something wrong?

Sandi:                                     Charles! Quit taking pictures…

FWOOMP. FWOOMP.

Upchuck:                               Work it, work it for me, ladies!

Quinn:                                    Upchuck! Stop it!

FWOOMP. FWOOMP. FWOOMP.

Sandi:                                     Aaaarr[FWOOMP]rrggghhhh!

FWOOMP. FWOOMP. FWOOMP. FWOOMP.

Tiffany:                                  Am I missing something going on here?

Stacy:                                     Just smile for the camera, Tiffany.

Tiffany:                                  Okay.

FWOOMP.

**VIDEO ENDS**

Amy:                I also found this in the yearbook. Loading image…now. 

The electronic blackboard flickered to life with a large color picture. On it were four young women smiling for a camera. Behind them was a banner which read, "Fashion Club". All four young women were sitting on a desk in a classroom, their feet clearly visible. All but Stacy wore bowling shoes. She was wearing some attractive Keds.

Amy:                She managed to sucker the rest of the Fashion Club into wearing bowling shoes. Anybody looking at the picture would see her as the attractive one by contrast. And I think it was smart of her to con the rest so she could be the attractive one in perpetuity. 

Nick:                What else?

Amy:                I ran some queries against the Li database but didn't come up with any matches for what I wanted. But then I found something on record where Principal Li confiscated an essay that a Mr. O'Neil found objectionable. I checked her permanent records. I found a lot of regular, routine things there, but one essay stood out. Her assignment was to write about a happy event. Stacy decided to write about the day she was to graduate from Lawndale. This was written when she was still a junior. In it, she notes a few things she'll miss which I also liked. Here's that section of the paper. Loading… now.

No, I won't miss Lawndale once I leave it. I won't miss my childhood. But what I will miss:

· Seeing the day when Sandi loses it and tries to get Quinn kicked out of the Fashion Club, if it's not disbanded before we graduate anyway, and then probably lose her marbles as well.

· Seeing the day when Tiffany finally gets off her meds. I hope she finds happiness after that.

· Seeing the day when Quinn finally realizes her cuteness won't save her from having to work for a living.

· Seeing the day when Quinn's sister and her friend make Quinn's life a living hell by mismatching her colors and shoes and silly-stringing her hair when she isn't expecting it, and highlighting her hair with colors that only show up in fluorescent light (i.e., at school) and soon she is so miserable that Tiffany even notices, and Quinn quits school in order to take up smoking and become a waitress at Moe's café on the edge of town that serves truckers where she eventually gets a rid out and years later has 3 kids that torment her constantly as she is now a single mother. 

Hah-hah-haaaaaaaaa – cough, cough, cough! Evil laughter intermixed with coughing in case you wanted to know. I'll have to see about getting a voice coach to train my vocal cords to do the laughing without coughing one of these days.

Nick:                Interesting. There was more to her than just eye candy.

Thomas:                What's that?

Nick:                Sorry. Old expression. Austin. Where's the author now?

Austin:                Stacy Rowe turned 18 two months shy of graduation. Three days after graduation she left Lawndale and hasn't been back as far as I could tell.

Mrs. Whitmore:                Any reason why she left?

Austin:                                   It's hard to say what the underlying reason was for Stacy's sudden departure from Lawndale. It could have been anything from just wanting to see the world to just wanting to get away from Lawndale. My guess is that she saw a commercial for joining the Army after she graduated. I'm thinking that since she had no Fashion Club duties, she was going crazy with a desire to want to do something. As is, it is known that she drifted apart from her former Fashion Club friends during her senior year and she wanted to do more than just go to college. I did some digging into her high school days, Amy, and found out that she had joined several other clubs that year.

Colin:                                      So now instead of joining a club, she joined the military?

Austin:                                   More than just joined up according to her autobiography. She joined the Army. She had planned on making it her career, moving through the ranks until she made general.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    I take it that didn't happen?

Austin:                                   No. She was terrible on the firing range, hated wearing the green uniforms as she considered them passé, and didn't want to put too much muscle on as it would make her unable to fill out her bikini. She did try out for the SEALS, but quickly withdrew once she found out it didn't have anything to do with the mammals.

Steve:                                     So how long did she stay in the Army?

Austin:                                   Oh, about five or six…

Steve:                                     Years?

Austin:                                   No, weeks. She was discharged before basic finished.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    So what did she do back in civilian life?

Austin:                                   Nothing much as she tried joining the Marines. 

Kara:                                       Same result?

Austin:                                   Just about. Only this time she lasted three weeks.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Did she go back to civilian life this time?

Austin:                                   Yes. For a time. She was now in Atlanta, Georgia. Summer was over, college life had begun and she didn't make it in anywhere. She got a job in a college bookstore and wrote that she quickly came to the conclusion that working for just over minimum wage was a sure fire way to staying poor the rest of her life. 

Ben:                                        That's for sure.

Austin:                                   For the next six months she searched the want ads and finally found one that appealed to her vanity more than anything else. She found an ad for swimsuit models. She went, applied and was one of several dozen girls selected. The models were then informed that the show would be out of town.

John:                                      This doesn't sound good. How far out of town?

Austin:                                   Cuba.

Bob:                                        I didn't think anyone was allowed to go to Cuba from the U.S. in those days.

Austin:                                   More or less, they weren't. This was a special show financed in part by the CIA.

Nick:                                       How'd you find that out.

Austin:                                   Stacy got it first hand from a few people who worked for the Agency after the coup. 

John:                                      What coup?

Austin:                                   I'm getting to that. Stacy went with the other models and their reps to Havana the next spring. They were putting forward a show highlighting the best in American swimwear. And apparently while they are doing that, the Agency was trying to persuade Fidel Castro to agree to another 99-year lease on Guantonomo Bay.

Bob:                                        You're kidding.

Austin:                                   Not at all. However, before they tried that Stacy outperformed the rest of the models as she knew how to work the crowd instead of just wearing the clothes and ignoring the crowd. She cited her years of training under Sandi as the reason she was so good at that.

Amy:                                      I thought Sandi was an snooty person when they were in high school.

Austin:                                   She was. I believe what Stacy meant was that she needed to develop people skills in order to keep the peace following a Sandi-snub. Anyway, the crowd of mostly Cuban men hooted and hollered so much that the show reps decided to have a beauty contest. Two days later, all the models and a large number of Cuban vixens were put on stage. Stacy won, became Miss Cuba and began her 15 minutes of fame.

Rose:                                      So where does the Agency come in?

Austin:                                   From what I could confirm, some factions of Castro's government wanted the lease and helped get the Agency people inside closed doors to go over their offer with him. They not only didn't get Fidel to agree, but their strong arm tactics led to him having a stroke.

Bridget:                                  He was what, a thousand years old by then? A stroke wouldn't have been unheard of.

Austin:                                   True, but unknown to the Agency folks and the government pinheads escorting them in, everything was being broadcast via some hidden cameras.

Jon:                                         Where'd the hidden camera's come from?

Austin:                                   Apparently Castro was just getting ready to open his personal web site, A Day In The Life Of A Cuban Dictator.

Colin:                                      I've seen that web site advertised in banner ads, but I've never gone to it.

Austin:                                   I have. I don't even want to mention it. Anyway, the hidden cameras were operated by a camera crew who decided to broadcast it to the population. After viewing it, the people rose up in anger.

Larissa:                                  Upset that their leader was hurt?

Austin:                                   Actually, they didn't care about that. No, they were pretty ticked that trusted government people helped American spies for money they weren't going to share.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    We're getting off track. What happened with Stacy?

Austin:                                   Actually, she played a vital part a few days later. The Cuba population rose up and pretty well killed a lot of government people. Those remaining decided they needed someone the people would trust as a leader. And they needed that person soon or when the people got through the locked doors, they were going to hang them. 

Diane:                                     Let me guess. Stacy.

Austin:                                   Very good. Yes, Stacy Rowe, Miss Cuba. The government people were holed up in the same hotel as the Americans. They quickly convinced her to make a TV and radio address to appeal for calm during this emergency. She did this and while on TV, they informed the rest of Cuba that Stacy was being made Dictator for Life, like Castro was. Only, Stacy objected. She didn't want to be Dictator.

Elizabeth:                               I knew she didn't have it.

Austin:                                   Instead, she wanted to be Queen. Surprisingly, the local population accepted her. Peace prevailed and a 19-year old Stacy began ruling Cuba using some of the guidance lessons imparted to her from good ol' Sandi Griffin. That last part wasn't in her autobio, but I could read its meaning between the lines.

Nick:                                       Why surprisingly?

Austin:                                   Castro had a son that should have gone to power. I guess no one thought of him and when all the fighting was done, he was nowhere in sight. He finally showed up several years later, doing what he had always wanted to, directing MTV-videos.

Jon:                                         What about the Agency?

Austin:                                   They got a non-aggression treaty with Cuba, but they didn't get the lease. Stacy took over the country and began whipping it into shape, and within a decade Disney wanted in. She sold them Guantonomo Bay's lease for 99 years and now they have a resort on Cuba – the Most Fashionable Place on Earth! The land of no plaid, unless you have a Scottish passport. Reservations required. Waiting list – one year out and growing. So where is Stacy Rowe? She's gone. And in her place is the name she's been known by for the last 50 years, the Cuban Queen.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    You're sure of your facts, Mr. Covello?

Austin:                                   More than you know, Mrs. Whitmore.

Bob:                                        This sounds like a movie.

Austin:                                   Knowing how cheap the Agency was back then, they probably hired a hack to write out the entire process and passed it on to some superiors in D.C. as good intel and a plan of action.

Amy:                                      Austin, why didn't you tell me any of this before coming to class today?

Austin:                                   I couldn't.

Amy:                                      Why not?

Austin checks something on his desk screen and audibly sighs in relief. 

Austin:                                   Oh, God, you don't know how close I came to being wiped out.

Diana:                                     Oh, no!

Diane:                                     Oh, no!

Debbie:                                  Oh, no!

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Quiet!

Amy:                                      What's going on, Austin?

Austin:                                   I can talk openly now that my accounts have been unfrozen. I'm sorry I had to keep you in the dark, Amy, but when we decided to break up the research, I quickly found out this Stacy Rowe was the famous Stacy Castro and I wanted to surprise you and the entire class on doing some research on someone who made it to the big time.

Bob:                                        How did your accounts get frozen?

Austin:                                   It was when I contacted the Cuban embassy in Washington for a comment. I was sent to their PR arm who took turns grilling me about the actual story instead of giving me background information. Since I didn't know much about it, that was Amy's job, they wanted to ride the class lines to view the story as it was being presented.

Nick:                                       That's illegal, and you know it.

Austin:                                   I know, but what could I do? They'd frozen my accounts if I didn't go along with them.

Bob:                                        How'd they freeze your accounts? They're a foreign power.

Austin:                                   That's what I said when they confronted me with their proposal and ultimatum. And that's when the US State Department and Disney's PR fist got involved and froze all of my accounts and assets.

Thomas:                                 Bummer, man.

Austin:                                   They informed me if I let on what was happening, they'd zap everything.

Colin:                                      But what were they looking for?

Austin:                                   Near as I could figure, they wanted to gauge first reaction to old intel on the current Cuban Queen in order to see if they'd have to do damage control in the long run. Since there wasn't anything bad, plus they have Amy's upbeat review I'm guessing, **_and_** the fact they now have all of it on record anyway they must've decided to release the hold they had on my accounts.

Aaron:                                    And who knows, this might even be used in a new ride somewhere in Cuba.

Nick:                                       Well, this has certainly been an interesting day. What did she leave behind in the time capsule?

Austin:                                   Her receipts.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Receipts for what?

Austin:                                   Clothes. It was four years of clothing receipts. They corresponded to her time in high school. There were enormous cash expenditures during the first three years and only two receipts during her senior year. The first one was a return receipt for just about everything she'd purchased during the three years previous, and the second was for a couple pairs of Levi's.

Nick:                                       What do you make of that?

Austin:                                   That Levi's were expensive even then and she needed to hock the rest of her outfits in order to get them?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    And you were **_this_** close to getting an "A" on this assignment, Austin. Nick?

Nick:                                       Levi's didn't hit high-tech prestige until the early 2010's, well after Stacy Rowe graduated, and well after she bought her pants.

Amy:                                      I hope this isn't going to impact my grade, is it?

Mrs. Whitmore:                    We'll talk, Amy. Austin, I want to see you after class to arrange a meeting between you, your parents, and your lawyer to go over unauthorized class line sharing.

Austin:                                   I'll get them on-line.

Nick:                                       Good job, Amy. Austin, I'm glad you wanted to go that extra step even if it didn't turn out well. Okay, who's next? C'mon, there's only a few of us left.

Two students raise their hands.

Nick:                Yui? Rose? You two ready to go? Good enough. 

**_Next:                                      Mack's Story: Baseball in the 60's_**

Contact me:

Jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2002 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen). 

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed. Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you. A coincidence! To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real. Or could it? I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	14. Mack's Story Baseball In The 60's

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS** go out to Thomas Mikkelsen, Nemo Blank, **and** Mike Yamiolkoski for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories! 

Baseball In The 60's By Michael Jordan Mackenzie 

**(transcribed by Steven Brown)**

Carl:                Oooohhfff!  _Grunt!_

Lenny:            C'mon, Carl.  You can do it.  One more.  C'mon, c'mon.  No pain, no gain.

Carl:                I can do two more at least, Lenny.  You okay spotting me?

Clink, clink, boom sounds emanate from behind Lenny and Carl.

Lenny:            No prob.  What else am I going to do with my day?

Announcer:   You two guys look like you're in shape.  Are you in shape?

Lenny:            Yeah.

Announcer:   Are you toned?

Carl:                Hell yeah!

Announcer:   Buffed and totally muscled up without having to work at it?

Carl:                Damn straight! Why else do you think I'm at this buffet stuffing my face?

Announcer:   Let's face it, if you're in shape all the time and don't like it, or you just want to see what it's like to be overweight, sluggish, or just plain lazy, then try Blubber-On!  This controversial new vitamin-inhibitor reverses what your parents did with their genetic screening to omit your lazy gene.  No more genetic programming for **you**!  Now you can tell them what's what and that's that!  You'll be able to eat as much candy as you want and not sweat it out later on – that is until you're 200 pounds overweight and then you'll be sweating all the time, but that's not relevant right now. Available in your local health stores today in both pill form, or in a frozen form on a stick.

Carl:                Frozen form?

Announcer:   It's like ice cream.

Lenny:            What's ice cream?

Announcer:   Here, just try it.

Paper is heard tearing.  

Lenny:            …mmmm.  Yum!  I'm feeling fatter already!

Announcer:   Blubber-On!  Available in both Vanilla and Chocolate flavors.  Try some today!

Mack:                     Okay, we're back sportsfans!  Brad, I'm telling you, the 2068 Zima-Pac Bell-Carnival Cruise-KFC World Series is the best I've seen in years!  Those players on the field are really showing they've got the right stuff, almost as if they're not even interested in the million dollar playing bonus each player gets for reaching game seven.

Brad:                       You're not kidding, Mack.  I haven't seen this much enthusiasm for the game since a streaker club flashed the Prez throwing the opening pitch for the White Sox. 

Mack:                     Heh-heh-heh.  I remember that.  What was that – about four years ago?

Brad:                       I think it was.  I'll have to check my downloads to make sure.

Mack:                     Getting back to this game, what do you seeing the Senators doing next?

Brad:                       With the Rocks down 3-to-1 looks like Coach Tone Deaf is staying with his regular lineup, Mack.  He's probably thinking, "why mess with a good thing?"

Mack:                     That's a smart move.  Go with your gut and keep with what's been working, I always say.  These are the players who got you here and they should have the option to play.

Brad:                       Couldn't agree more.  Coach Tone Deaf… Coach Tone Deaf.  You know, I've been wondering about his name this entire series.  It's so familiar.  Wasn't he a music star once?

Mack:                     You got me.  I don't listen to music with a beat these days.

Brad:                       Ah, you prefer downloading into the cortex?

Mack:                     Nah, I'm just hard of hearing.  Besides, I never liked rap.  Hey, it looks like Rockies coach Mike Shendon is a believer in his players as well.  He must not feel pressured to put in a pinch hitter.

Brad:                       In case you are just joining us, you've missed on heck of a swell game to this point.  It's the bottom of the ninth and Rockies first Baseman, Todd Hamilton, is up to bat.  If they can keep up the pressure, in three outs the Senators are looking at becoming the fastest expansion team to win the World Series, surpassing that of even the Florida Marlins or the Little Rock Strip Miners!

Mack:                     Hamilton shrugs off the first pitch, low and outside. 

Brad:                       I've seen Hamilton go through as many as three pitches before he decides he sees one he wants.

Mack:                     I remember that game.  They were all strikes as I recall.

Brad:                       Yeah, he wasn't really thinking at the time.  Hopefully he is today.

_WHACK!_

Mack:                     Pow!  Hamilton really smacked that ball!  It's streaking for the back wall!

Brad:                       Even better, it's headed for the cheap seats!  Some fan could have a souvenir today!

Mack:                     Won't be today, Brad.  That ball just won't make it according to the telemetry readouts from the bat.  Looks like it was hit .14 centimeters off the home run zone for that pitch.  The ball's hit the upper line as Hamilton rounds first.  Looks like he's holding up on second as second baseman Juan Smith gets the throw in from Ortega.

Brad:                       A double!  Not a bad start.  A few more of those and the Senators might just get a little nervous with their lead.

Mack:                     No kidding.  Looks like the Senators' home crowd doesn't like the play of center fielder Mario Ortega.  But they should remember that Hamilton has always been a good batter.

Brad:                       When he pays attention.

Mack:                     There's that.  

Brad:                       And for those of you listening to this broadcast in the bleacher ring above the 8,200 box seats, no souvenir today folks.

Mack:                     Do you have today's attendance figures?

Brad:                       Sure do.  Looks like we have a sellout crowd in the bleacher ring.  All 410 seats were sold.  

Mack:                     How about the box seats?

Brad:                       Up from last year.  We have 51% attendance this year.

Mack:                     Folks, in a few short weeks the box seating will again open up.  Put in your reservations for quality seating as soon as you can by calling the nearest major league stadium.  The waiting list is getting shorter all the time and this could be something for your kids to enjoy with they retire.

Brad:                       Or call even your minor league stadium.  The owners aren't picky.  You have a good shot of getting box seats before you retire.

Mack:                     I feel like a pimp with these ads.

Brad:                       We're still on the air, Mack.

Mack:                     So?  Looks like Chico Dominique is up to bat with third baseman Saul Hasshole on deck.

Brad:                       Dominique has really performed this season.  Looks like he really proved the nay-sayers wrong with the signing bonus he got at the start of the season.

Mack:                     I'll say.  You know, sometimes I wonder what these players do with all the money they get.

Brad:                       They buy South-American countries.

Mack:                     Not anymore, and it was only part of Argentina that Galaraguez bought.

Brad:                       He still bought a country.  No matter how you define it.

Mack:                     Dominique swings like a rusty old gate, strike one.  Even though that was over 40 years ago, I have to agree with you that payment to players was getting way out of hand.

Brad:                       Weren't you still playing when they enacted the salary cap?

Mack:                     Nessman eyes the batter, nods to the call and lets loose.  Low and outside, ball one.  No, I'd been cut the season prior to make salary room for a shortstop.

Brad:                       That had to sting.

Mack:                     It did, but I could see the writing on the club walls.  The ball's away – Dominique checks his swing as it's high and outside – ball two.

Brad:                       Tension was thick as molasses in January back in those days, eh?

Mack:                     Count is two and one.  Not really.  Management had opted to start writing what they wanted from their ballclub on the locker room walls in big letters.  And what they wanted for me was to leave as a cost savings.  Swing-and-a-miss, like that's nothing new for Dominique – strike two.  

Brad:                       You're kidding.  You never told me that.

Mack:                     Never came up.  I kept a picture of it to remind me where I stood with management.

Bard:                       'Get rid of Mack to make room for Kenny G. Signed, the management.'  Nice people.

_SMACK!!_

Mack:                     Pow!  Dominque put everything into that one!  

Brad:                       It's goodbye Mr. Spalding!

Mack:                     Not quite.  It's heading for deep right field and… _caught by outfielder Jimmy Herrera!_

Brad:                       It's **not goodbye Mr. Spalding!  That was some catch by Herrera!  He literally jumped onto the wall to catch the ball before it became some kid's souvenir. **

Mack:                     Right you are, Brad.  Hamilton is staying on second.  The Senators are two outs from winning their first World Series.

Brad:                       No wonder you go out of your way to embarrass owners.

Mack:                     That wasn't the motivation I needed.  Getting cut is part of the game.  Besides I was working in broadcasting soon after.  No, I like to embarrass them because I get a bonus every time it happens.

Brad:                       You know, I learn something new about you that I like every day.

Peter:                      You two should get a room.

Mack:                     Hasshole readies at the plate with left fielder Juan Miguel up on deck.  First pitch, curve ball, inside.  Ball one.

Brad:                       Joining us again is Peter Heinlein, our designated call-in listener.  Peter, how's the bladder holding out?

Peter:                      I tell you, the things I do to win a contest just to get a shot at being a designated listener.  Sigh.  It'll be better by tomorrow.

Brad:                       Do you think you'll be able to stay with us until the end of the game?  

Peter:                      You bet.  I'm not missing out on this.  

Brad:                       Any questions so far?

Peter:                      Nah, I'm good.

Mack:                     Hasshole swings like he's blind, strike one.  How are you enjoying the game so far, Peter?

Peter:                      Not too bad.  I'm just hoping for a different outcome than last year.  Hey, I have a question.

Mack:                     Count – one and one.  Hasshole readies again at the plate, swings.

_DINK!_

Mack:                     Foul ball as usual!  Strike two.  

Brad:                       Peter, go ahead.

Peter:                      It's a question for Mr. MacKenzie. 

Mack:                     Please, call me Mack.  Everyone does.  Shoot.

Peter:                      How did you get the nickname, "Chipper?"

Mack:                     That takes me back.  I haven't heard that name in a long time.  Well, that's what I used to do to the old bats.  I usually chipped them when I hit foul balls.

Brad:                       Which you tended to do more often than not.

Mack:                     And thank you for that glowing summary of my career, Brad.  

Brad:                       Heh-heh-heh.  Sure thing, buddy.

Mack:                     Hasshole steps away from the plate to stretch and wave to some girls in a box seat, his mind not really into the game.  That sounds more like his style.

Peter:                      I don't understand.  Smart-bats don't chip.  They're made of plastic-fiberglass designed to shatter, but they won't chip.

Mack:                     Count – one and two.  I played ball before smart-bats were around, back in the days of wooden bats that you could cork if you were careful.  Hasshole steps back to the plate and eyes the pitcher like he's got better things to do with his time.

Brad:                       Really?  I thought he was eyeing him like he was a bug.

_CRACK!_

Mack:                     Pow!  Hasshole hits a _screamer to center field!  It's a one-hopper scooped up by Ortega who throws to Pedro O'Neill on third base but not before Hamilton holds up there!  Hamilton's not going anywhere now, and the tying run is at first!_

Peter:                      I thought you were a pinch hitter.

Mack:                     No, I was a pitcher.  The Rockies have one out and runners on first and third. 

Peter:                      Then who am I thinking of?

Brad:                       Depends.  Are you thinking of the National League, American League, or the two expansions – the Pacific League or Southern League?

Peter:                      Which one did Mr. MacKenzie play in?

Mack:                     I played in all the leagues, at least a year each in every expansion team.

Peter:                      That doesn't help.  I'll have to get back to you on who I'm thinking about.

Brad:                       And speaking of corn, have you tried Pepsico's Poppy Low Cal?  The popcorn drink that tastes like the real deal!  Pepsico's P-L-C!  Try some today.  Mack, want a sip?

Peter:                      When did we start talking about corn?

Mack:                     Nah.  I used to eat the real popcorn.  Drinking it just isn't the same.

Brad:                       True, but Congress had to do something about all those lawsuits and escalating dentist bills.  I used to eat popcorn but after my last crown shattered on a kernel, I only drink P-L-C.  It tastes just like popcorn.

Mack:                     Still gonna pass.  Juan Migel, the Rockies left fielder steps up to the plate.  You can see he has the glint of a winner in his eyes.

Brad:                       I thought that was just the glint off his contacts.

Mack:                     Any way you look at it, Juan has a glint in his eye.

Peter:                      I wonder glinting hurts?

Brad:                       Sorry about that Peter.  You have your question ready?

Peter:                      Oh forget it.  I'll just listen to the game.  

Mack:                     Good idea.  Miguel is looking to tear the skin off the ball.

_SMACKAROONIE!_

Mack:                     Pow!  Miguel slugs a bouncer into third baseman Pedro O'Neill's glove where it's picked up and thrown towards Spago on first!  Miguel is running as if he were back in east L.A. and taking the daily receipts to the bank!  Hasshole has already moved to second and is holding up!  The ball is on its way… and safe!  Miguel is safe on first!  Bases are now loaded!

Brad:                       Hamilton on third has just decided to make a run for home.  What is he thinking?

Mack:                     Hamilton's running quickly but Spago's seen him and is throwing the ball to catcher Brendon Winters!  Hamilton slides… and is tagged!  He's **_outta_ there!**

**_WWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!_**

Brad:                       The crowd here has gone wild, folks.  They're celebrating like the Senators have just won.

Mack:                     Maybe they did.  That wasn't the smartest thing for Hamilton to do.  That's got to hurt the Rocks.

Brad:                       Something's going on at home plate.  Hamilton's arguing with the Umpire.

Mack:                     Here comes Coach Shendon and I believe that's Dr. Hibbert with him.  

Peter:                      I don't see Hibbert's name on the roster.

Mack:                     That's because he's not officially part of the team, Peter.  He works for the league.  Uh-oh, this isn't going to make fans happy here.

Peter:                      What's going on?

Mack:                     Yep, there's the paperwork coming out.  And I've just got word from our spotters on the ground that Hibbert is arguing the case that Hamilton has A-D-D, or Attention Deficit Disorder.

Brad:                       I've got feed coming in from the Umpire mic.  Looks like Shendon's arguing that if Hamilton didn't have it, he would have left third base sooner and been safe at home.  Hibbert is backing him up.

Mack:                     The ump is considering it… and there's the ruling.  He's accepted the argument, backed up by Hibbert's confirmation and psyche profile of Hamilton.  The run counts and the out is negated.  Rocks are now 3-2 with runners at first and second, and one out.

**_BOOOOOOOOOOOOO-HSSSSSSSSSSS!!_**

Brad:                       The crowd just got wind of what's going on and they don't like it one bit.  There go a few hecklers in the stands trying to jump onto the field.  Oooohhh, ouch.  That's got to hurt.

Mack:                     Folks, I can't tell you how painful those tasers look that the groundskeepers carry.  Please keep in mind, if you come to a game don't jump onto the field.  It can be hazardous to your health.

Brad:                       Two hecklers down and the rest are stopping in the stands, Mack.  Here comes the emergency staff to cart away the two downed fans.

Mack:                     While we're waiting here's today's headlines. Leavenworth, Kansas was the scene of the latest lawyer/felon riot.  Six felons were hospitalized after refusing to pay their lawyer bills.

Brad:                       Is it just me, or have those lawyers really started pumping iron as a prerequisite for law school?

Mack:                     It's not you.  Congress again took up the bill to label coffee as a drug in order to regulate it like tobacco and wean kids off it.  

Brad:                       You ever drink coffee?

Mack:                     Hell, yes.  How do you think I stayed awake during college?  But I'm all for keep kids off the juice.

Brad:                       More for you later, eh?

Mack:                     Hell, yes.  And Rockies fans will be happy to hear that secondary test results have just confirmed earlier speculation of Chester Kowalski's alleged initial testing where he tested positive for excessive endorphins prior to the start of today's game.  

Peter:                      What's that mumbo-jumbo supposed to mean?

Mack:                     He's been officially cut from the team.

Brad:                       Guess you could say he was just looking forward to it a bit too much, eh?

Mack:                     You ain't whistling Dixie Chicks.

Brad:                       And it looks like the emergency staff is off the field.  Play is resuming in the 2068 Zima-Pac Bell-Carnival Cruise-KFC World Series.

Mack:                     Looks like KFC has just pulled out to go back another sport, Brad.

Brad:                       And it looks like play is resuming in the 2068 Zima-Pac Bell-Carnival Cruise World Series.

Mack:                     Third baseman Saul Hasshole is on second and left fielder Juan Migel is on first.  Score is three and two, with the Senators lead slipping away.  Right fielder Pan Oootzik steps up to the plate.  Pitcher Lupe Nessman nods to the signal and throws.  Strike one.  Oootzik didn't even try swinging at that, figuring another strike was on its way.  There's at least two more.

Brad:                       Something's going on at second base.  What's Hasshole doing?

Mack:                     Hasshole has stepped off the base but isn't moving to run.  He's just standing there, two feet away from second.  He's folded his arms.  Oh, don't do this.

Peter:                      What is it?  What's going on?

Brad:                       Senators catcher Brendon Winters sees him and is throwing the ball to second baseman, Juan Smith.

Mack:                     Smith has just tagged out Hasshole, who still hasn't moved.  It's a double-cross, ladies and gentlemen!

Brad:                       Yes indeed, Hasshole has turned his cap around.  He's activated his lapel-izer and his Rocks white and purple colors have just turned to the Senators colors of red, azure, and topaz.  He's now headed for the Senators dugout where I can see his agent and a notary are waiting with a new contract.

Mack:                     I hate to see that during any game, but especially during playoffs.  I wish the league wouldn't let them do that anymore.

Brad:                       So do I, but they needed something to offset the salary cap and ever since all 56 states acquiesced to legalized gambling, odds makers have been working at leveling the playing field, any way they can.

Mack:                     That double-cross seems to have taken the wind out of the Rocks chances to win.  It sure looks like the Senators are going to bring home the Series despite the tremendous comeback effort by the Rockies.

Peter:                      Sure has, Mack.  But Oootzik's expression looks like he expected it.

Brad:                       And perhaps he did, Peter – wait a moment, how did you know that?  Are you **watching** the game on satellite?

Mack:                     I thought you were our designated call in** listener**.

Peter:                      Um… no _hable englaise?_

Mack:                     That's what I thought.   It's bottom of the ninth with two outs.  Rocks are down 3-2.  Lupe Nessman throws a pitch.  Oootzik checks his swing, the smart-bat confirming it didn't enter the strike zone – ball one.

Brad:                       But Peter does make an interesting observation.  Oootzik doesn't look all that shocked at Hasshole's defection.

Mack:                     No he doesn't.  Look at his steely resolve.  There may be fire left in the Rockies after all.  It looks like the defection has given at least this young man the determination to win.  Low and inside, without so much as a swing at it – ball two.

Brad:                       Oootzik checks the flags over the stadium's wrap-around Jumbo-tron. 

Mack:                     Slight wind, not much help either way.  Two outs, bottom of the ninth.  Count – two and oh.  Here's the pitch.

_BONK!_

Mack:                     Pow!  Well, not so much as a "pow" on that one as more a "bonk!"  Oootzik got a good pounding on that ball but it just doesn't have much heat on it.  

Brad:                       It doesn't have the distance either.

Mack:                     That it doesn't.  The ball's bounced back to pitcher Lupe Nessman.  One out will win the game for the Senators.  Nessman picks the ball up and looks at Migel running from first to second.  

Brad:                       What's he doing?  He's not throwing the ball.  Miguel makes it safely to second while Oootzik trots safely to first.

Mack:                     Nessman still hasn't thrown the ball.  The play is still active.  Guest-celebrity third base coach Zeta Jones-Douglas is waving frantically for Miguel to advance.  He's on the move.  So is Oootzik.  Players are now safely at second and third base.  The tying run is now 20 meters-thereabouts from scoring.

Brad:                       This is amazing, Mack.  Pitcher Lupe Nessman is turning is cap around and has touched lapel-izer on his jersey!  His uniform colors have now converted to the Rockies colors of white and purple!  This is unbelievable!  He's now headed for the Rocks dugout amidst an outpouring of cheers and jeers.

Mack:                     A **_double_-double-cross!  Wow, what a game!**

Brad:                       And by rule, players cannot advance more than two bases on a double-cross during an active play.

Mack:                     You said it!  Simply amazing, sports-fans!  We haven't seen that in 20 years!

Brad:                       No kidding.  Peter, any comments?

Peter:                      I'm glad I paid for satellite feed to catch that.

Mack:                     What was that?

Peter:                      Um… what?  Ding dong.  Oops, someone's at the door.  Let me get that – I'll be right back.

Brad:                       Unbelievable.  History is being made today, folks.  

Mack:                     Looks like Coach Shendon is signaling a play in.  Uh-oh, this doesn't look good.  See that, Brad?

Brad:                       What… oh, there it is.  Yep, looks like that coach's semaphoring email signals have just been intercepted by a Speek.

Peter:                      You know, I've always heard that term but never knew what it meant.

Mack:                     It stands for Sports Geek.  Looks like he's decoding the transmissions for the Senators.

Peter:                      How does he come by enough knowledge to translate the signals?

Brad:                       Usually Speeks have way too much time on their hands and fill it up memorizing useless sports trivia.

Peter:                      You mean like sports announcers?

Brad:                       Not quite.  We're highly paid professionals.

Peter:                      Whatever.

Mack:                     Sure hope they were fake codes.  Coach Tone Deaf's giving some final instructions to his new pitcher, Michael Bain.

Brad:                       We'll see on this next play.  What the Senators need now is a big-time out to end this inning and win the game.

Mack:                     Big center fielder Paul Bunion steps up to the plate.  The pitch is away.

_WHACKABINGBONG!_

Mack:                     Bunion smacks a dribbler to short stop T'sal Smork!  He's picked it up and throws it to Smith who tags Oootzik – who made the smart move by staying on second.  Migel is heading for home.  Smith won't beat him so he throws to first baseman Spago – who incredulously isn't at first base!  Meanwhile Migel has made it home safe!  Game is now tied, 3-3!  And Bunion is safe at first!

Brad:                       What's going on?  Is it an error?  This is the weirdest game ever, Mack.  And what was with the sound that smart-bat made?

Mack:                     This game's got a lot going in it, that's for sure.  

Brad:                       But where's Spago?

Mack:                     I can't see… ah, there he is.  He's signing autographs for those kids down there next to that luxury box.  Behind that field mat.  Can't fault him for that.  A team's got to stick behind him when those kids come to the window for an autograph.

Brad:                       You got that right – those luxury boxes pay the signing bonuses for players.  And it looks like that's what Coach Tone Deaf's going to do.  He's out of the dugout and coming over to talk to Spago.  Wait, looks like a kid's asking for his autograph… and there he is signing it.  That did it.

Mack:                     Yep.  Forced out.  A double autograph spells a forced out.

Brad:                       Bunion is no longer safe at first.  By rule, he's now out.

Mack:                     Hold the implants, Brad.  Coach Tone Deaf's refusing the forced out.  He's actually waiving for Bunion to return to the base.

Brad:                       Unbelievable.  Now that, sportsfans, is an example of true sportsmanship.  No cheap shots.  No forced outs to end an inning.  You let the players handle things.  You know, I may have to get his autograph myself.

Mack:                     I totally agree with you, Brad.  But the important thing here is the game is tied!  This is some comeback!  What a game!

Brad:                       Peter, any comments?

_Silence._

Brad:                       Peter?

_Fwwoooossssshhhh._

Brad:                       Sounds like Peter is a little indisposed at the moment.

Mack:                     Bottom of the ninth.  Two outs.  Score is tied.  One more run and the Rockies win their first ever World Series.

Brad:                       Relief pitcher Jerry Sparks is up to bat.  He's eyeing Senators pitcher, Michael Bain.  Giving him the once-over.

Mack:                     More like the twice-over, Brad.  You'd think they need a room the way they're flirting with one another.

Brad:                       I thought they were sharing the honeymoon suite over at the Hilton last night?

Mack:                     I heard that from their agent.  Obviously they didn't get everything out of their systems before the start of the game.

Brad:                       Mike chucks a heater –

_BAM!_

Mack:                     Pow!  Jerry knocks the skin off that one!  It's heading for the wall, but again won't be a souvenir since it just doesn't have the juice!  Mario Ortega snatches it 10-meters from the wall.  That's the end of the inning, folks!

Brad:                       More than that, it's the end of the game!  Both sides win yet again!  This has been some game!  Everyone's going home a **winner!**

Mack:                     And here come the fireworks.

Peter:                      …oooohhhh, I've already got my fireworks going here.

Brad:                       Peter, you going to live?

Peter:                      Ask me that tomorrow.  Oooohhh, why did I have to eat all those 7-Eleven Cheeto's brand Pizza-Cheddar-Cheese-to'sTM combined with the refreshing taste of a Super-Duper Coca-ColaÒ Colossal Gulp, the most refreshing drink you can get still in a 120oz cup with a straw?

Mack:                     Any more endorsements there, Peter?

Peter:                      Nah, I think I got them all in.  Oh, wait.  Thanks to the makers of Pepcid, my colossal heartburn has finally gone out.  Pepcid – puts the burn out after you've eaten the junk.  Okay, I'm good.

Brad:                       Again, both teams win, folks!  It was a real nail-biter at the end when it looked like the Senators might just actually pull off an upset and win a championship series, causing serious repercussions and bad feelings which hasn't been done in… how long, Mack?

Mack:                     Last actual victory I saw was about 35 years ago. 

Brad:                       I can't say it enough!  Another World Series Tie!  Absolutely astounding!  We'll be joining our reporters in the locker rooms in a few minutes for post-game wrap-up, but first I wanted to thank my partner of 15 years for all the professionalism he's given this game.  Michael "The Chip" MacKenzie, or "Mack" as we know him.  This is his final game with us and with ESPN XM-Radio.  Mack, you've been a true friend and mentor.  And it just wouldn't be proper to let you retire without a sendoff.

Mack:                     Thanks Brad, but that's not really necessary.

Brad:                       I know, but I wanted to do it anyway.  In fact, I did some extensive research into your background.

Mack:                     Look, I don't know how that car got parked on my driveway.  I was in Buffalo that day.

Brad:                       Huh?

Mack:                     Umm… never mind.  You were saying?

Peter:                      Is this going to last much longer?  When do I get to go to the locker-room reporters?  I've got questions I want to ask the players.

Brad:                       Watch it, buster.  Anyway, as part of my research for a tribute I found that you once played football in your college years before going to baseball. 

Peter:                      So?  A lot of players do that.

Brad:                       True.  But I did find out that during these same college years, our buddy Mack here played football with none other than the legendary Kevin Thompson, who was one of the greatest college QB's of all time.  And is remembered for his NFL career as well.

Mack:                     Right.  Great.  Good times, sure.  Can I go now?

Brad:                       No.  I still have your car keys and won't give them back until we're done.

Mack:                     Did your research indicate that I left football as I was being kicked off the team anyway because Coach said I wasn't blocking good enough for Kevin on third down conversions?  I tell you, when I went out for baseball that changed everything.

Brad:                       Yeah, I kind of figured, but I couldn't get any of those people to come down to the stadium tonight.  They were all busy.  All I could get was the next best thing to pro sports.  Plus, the producer is a football fan from way back.

Mack:                     Lester – you and I are going to have some words.

Lester:                    Love you too, Mack!  This is for that surprise birthday party last year.

Mack:                     How was I to know she wasn't your wife?!

Brad:                       So here's Kevin Thompson!

Peter:                      Who?

Brad:                       Kevin Thompson!

Peter:                      Who's he again?  I thought you said he was famous!

Brad:                       Look, he won the national championship in college and later played in the NFL!

Peter:                      So.

Brad:                       He played for the Bengals.

Peter:                      They suck.

Brad:                       Now they do, but when Kevin played for them…

Peter:                      No, you don't understand.  They've always sucked.  They've never won anything.  Why do you think they were kicked out of Cincinnati? 

Brad:                       Look, I didn't write this intro.  My producer did.

Mack:                     Lester!

Lester:                    Heh-heh-heh.

Peter:                      Then that person sucks too since they didn't know the Bengals sucked.  

Lester:                    Hey!

Mack:                     Heh-heh-heh.

Peter:                      A good team, my as...

Brad:                       Whoops, looks like the automated censors have just jammed Peter's connection.  Darn digital service.  Give me the old analog days anytime.  Peter will be joining us again when the censor clears the line in a few minutes.  Anyway, as I was saying, Kevin Thompson had a somewhat successful career in college which led him to leaving college early and joining the NFL.  Mack, you've been a friend of mine for years and I wanted to bring someone into the press box for your sendoff who I knew you'd like to see again.  This is who Lester and I came up with.

Mack:                     You're kidding.  Les, you know what I think of Kev-

Kevin:                    Yo! Mack-daddy!  How's it hanging?

Mack:                     Don't call me tha…  Kevin?  Is that you?

Kevin:                    None other!  You probably don't recognize me since I've gotten gray hair.  Plus, I'm not surrounded by chicks or babes!

Mack:                     No, I don't recognize you since you're in a wheelchair with an array of tubes running in and out of you.  Is that a catheter?  No, don't tell me, I don't want to know.  What the hell happened?

Kevin:                    Aw, man, you know. The same old thing.

Brad:                       Not entirely true, Kevin.  From what I researched, during the last season you were in the NFL, the same season the Bengals were on the perch of going to the playoffs for the first time in two decades, you went in as the third string QB and managed a rout.

Mack:                     You sure you got your facts right, Brad?

Brad:                       Sure am, Mack.  Kevin single-handedly turned over the football six times which led to the Titans scoring an amazing 42 points within five minutes!  What a catastrophe!  And thus ended Cincinnati's already questionable fondness for the Bengals!

Mack:                     That sounds more like the Kevin I know.

Kevin:                    Aw, man. I'm sure I did better than that.  I got drafted after all!

Mack:                     I seem to remember that now that you mention it.  Weren't you the very last pick?

Kevin:                    I still got drafted.

Brad:                       Indeed you were drafted, Mr. Thompson.  But I don't understand why you held out in training camp for a signing bonus.  You were the last pick after all.

Kevin:                    It was my manager's idea.

Mack:                     Wasn't your dad your manager?

Kevin:                    Yeah!  My dad always had good advice.  Like when to study for school or when to play ball.

Brad:                       His advice resulted in you being cut by Dallas before the season even started.

Kevin:                    But another pro team immediately picked me up!  As a QB!

Brad:                       Dallas won the Superbowl that year.  But getting back to you, the Bengals now came into the picture.  You started out as their third-string quarterback still in training camp.

Kevin:                    I was the QB for a pro team!  Just like my dad always said I would be.

Brad:                       Um, right.  Anyway, you sustained an injury in training camp.  You broke your left hand.

Kevin:                    I did?  I don't remember that.

Brad:                       According to my research I'm not surprised.  The official word from the team was that you were out practicing late one evening with several receivers when caught a return ball awkwardly and chipped a bone.  Unofficial word had it that you and the receivers were wasted and you tripped over a ball and used your left hand to stop your fall, but ended up chipping a bone as well as getting a concussion from hitting your head on the keg nearby.

Mack:                     Kevin.  How original.

Kevin:                    That's me.  I'm an original kind of guy!  And I was the QB!

Brad:                       By the fourth game of the season you were healed up and were put in to save the other quarterbacks.  You lasted two series before a linebacker got through on a blitz, tackled you to the ground and broke six of your ribs.

Kevin:                    I remember that.  It smarted.

Brad:                       I'm sure it did.  And by the thirteenth game of the season you were healed up and again put in, only to have your right forearm broken.

Kevin:                    We QB's lead a dangerous life, in case any of your radio-babes want to know.  

Brad:                       The medical reports we dug up on you indicated this re-aggravated an old college injury.

Mack:                     Old injury?  Kevin, how bad did you get it in college?

Kevin:                    Didn't you follow my career?

Mack:                     Hell no.  Brad?

Brad:                       Two concussions, three cracked ribs, both ankles sprained, right forearm broken.  Twice.  All in his junior year.

Peter:                      Maybe he thought he wouldn't survive his senior and that's why he left early.

Brad:                       Welcome back, Peter.

Kevin:                    A QB has to be able to withstand pain.  Like a secret agent being tortured, man.

_Pinch._

Kevin:                    Ow!  What was that for?

Brad:                       Just pinching to see if I was awake.

Kevin:                    Aren't you supposed to pinch yourself?

Brad:                       I'll have to try that next time.  Anyway, at the start of the second season, you ran into problems with the kicker.

Kevin:                    Ah, he was just jealous of my natural athletic ability.

Brad:                       You tried out for his position as rumors circulated you would be cut if you didn't perform that year.

Mack:                     Kevin, a **kicker?!  They only have one job!**

Kevin:                    I would still be on a **pro team, Mack!**

Brad:                       Only this kicker was smart enough to substitute a cement-filled football for you to kick and you broke your right foot.

Kevin:                    Okay, now that I remember and it hurt.

Brad:                       Injured list for most of the season, you were able to finally get back in the game during the last regular game of the season.  Both QB's were injured.  All you needed to do was keep the ball out of the other team's hands for five more minutes and you would be going to the playoffs.  Of course that didn't happen and the team summarily cut you the next day.

Kevin:                    Well, it wasn't all that bad.  Since I didn't get picked up by another pro team, I still had time to cruise for chicks!

Mack:                     Still as clueless as ever, right, Kevin?

Kevin:                    Oh, I know that game!  That's where you spin a wheel and move around on a board. 

Mack:                     Sure.  Life.  Why not?

Brad:                       Kevin, your bio states you did get picked up by an arena team.

Mack:                     You're kidding.  Kevin, you said you'd never play for what you said was a fake football league.

Kevin:                    …uhm…

Brad:                       He didn't, really.  Seems he was cut during his first game after he got tackled and broke his ankle.

Kevin:                    Like I said, I still had plenty of times for the chicks.

Brad:                       I'm sure you did, once you got to Germany.

Mack:                     European Football?!  Kevin, how could you?

Kevin:                    I had to, man.  My new agent swiped my signing bonus.

Brad:                       And for those of you listeners who still aren't watching European Football, not to be confused with Soccer, no reason to as it was canceled 32 years ago due to dwindling ratings.

Mack:                     What about your playing money?

Kevin:                    That, um, went towards Tasha.

Mack:                     Tasha?

Brad:                       His Russian "chick."  Seems he had a flair for the ladies.

Kevin:                    Can we not talk about Tasha?  I don't want to invalidate the restraining order I still have against her.

Brad:                       Of course, all those football injuries pale in comparison to what Brittany Taylor did to you, doesn't it?  Wasn't it in your second year in college when she found you…

Kevin:                    Sssshhh!  Not so loud!  She might be listening.  Somewhere.  I don't want her tracking me down again.  Let's just say… she was doing some sort of science experiment with my participation.

Peter:                      More like involuntary participation if you ask me.

Mack:                     Kevin, what was she "experimenting" on you for?

Kevin:                    I don't really remember.  I'm pretty sure it wasn't as if I was with another cheerleader or anything.  Heh.  Yeah, I'm sure it was for something good or whatever, like seeing if being a QB really enhances thinking powers and stuff.

Mack:                     (Pause) Ho, ho, ha, ha, ha, hee, hee, heeeee.  Thinking.  That's funny, Kevin.  Thanks, Brad.  This did make my day after all.  You too, Les.

Kevin:                    So how about you and me go cruisin' for chicks?

Mack:                     (Pause) Ho, ho, ha, ha, ha, hee, hee, heeeee.  You're so funny, Kevin.  You're too much. 

Kevin:                    What did I say? 

Mack:                     Brad, I'm out of here.  You've got a great career ahead of you.  You're going to go far.

Brad:                       It's been a pleasure, Mack.  Here's your keys.  What are you going to do now?

Mack:                     I'm off to meet the missus for a late Viagra-enriched dinner.  Kevin, don't stay in touch.  And to all my listeners over the years, thank you.  Later.

Kevin:                    So, Brad-Daddy, you up for cruisin' for chicks?

Brad:                       Don't call me that.  It's Brad.  And no.  That's all for the 2068 Zima-Pac Bell-Carnival Cruise World Series where the Topeka Senators tied with the Denver Rockies 3-3 in a nail-biting exciting game!

Kevin:                    How about you, sound-guy?  You want to cruise for chicks?

Brad:                       Next week the Baseball Channel begins the Zone Playoffs.  First up is the third round of scabs following the latest player's strike in the Northern Zone vs. the Western Zone's union players.  Today's teams will be going up against whoever's playing in the Montreal Zips and the Alaskan Ice Caps.  Winners will advance to the Regional Zone playoffs.

Kevin:                    I still get all-you-can-eat shrimp for dinner, right?

Brad:                       I'm Brad Kwangalui wishing you and yours a good evening and remember: play fair.  It goes good with your karma.  Good night.

Kevin:                    So, do you need, like, an announcing partner or something now?  I'm sure I can do it, even if it is baseball and not a real sport like football.

Brad:                       No.

Kevin:                    'Cause I'm not busy or anything.

Brad:                       No.

Kevin:                    I'm sure I could help bring over football ratings to baseball and stuff.

Brad:                       Let me think about it.  No.

Kevin:                    How about…

Brad:                       No.

The End 

**Location: History 363.**

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                Discussion.  What conclusions can you draw from this story?  Rose?  Yui?  Who is Michael Jordan Mackenzie?

Rose:                I'll start with the obvious.  He didn't like Kevin Thompson.  He may not have hated him or anything, but he certainly wasn't fond of him.

Mrs. Whitmore:                How do you know that?

Rose:                Take a look at the size of the story.  About a quarter of it goes into Kevin Thompson's declining career and how he had a lot of bad things happen to him.  Combine that with the footage we've seen of him from the other stories and you get an idea that not too many people really liked him.  

Ben:                True, but not too much is known about Mack either.  How do we know he wasn't just like Kevin?

Rose:                I thought of that as well.  I even checked on his school record.  He was the captain of the football team, not Kevin.  My guess is that he looked out for Kevin, and did a good job at since they won a lot more games than they lost.  But then I compared his story to Kevin's.  They are vastly different in that someone actually put some thought into this one vs. simply going around with a tape recorder on the other.

Dan:                The thought being to put Kevin in traction?

Rose:                I'll give you that.  The first thing I found out about the author is that he had a work ethic unlike other jocks.

Diana:                Hey!

Debbie:                Hey!

Diane:                Yeah.  I mean, hey!

Rose:                Sorry.  Jocks at the time the story was written.

Diana:                That's better.

Mrs. Whitmore:                People.  Rose, continue.

Rose:                The initial footage Nick downloaded showed a group of people put in a room and told to write up something for this time capsule.  It also had former-principal Li saying that Michael, or Mack, was one of the very few people to sign up for this assignment – **voluntarily.  He wanted to do something of his own will vs. having to do it for a grade.  That showed character.**

Austin:                Shows the character of someone who doesn't have a portfolio to manage if you ask me.

Nick:                We're not, so keep quiet and let Rose continue.

Rose:                He worked his assignment and truthfully, I think he wrote a story on what he wanted to do when he was older.  He wanted to go into announcing.  Or possibly still be around sports in some capacity.  I think he enjoyed it.  I found his school records showing he was in just about every sport they had and still managed to keep up a pretty decent GPA.

Amy:                I don't care what anyone else says, I liked the story.  I was just amazed at how close his story came to predicting the future.  I mean, how did he think to predict the Popcorn Boycott of 2033-2037?  It's just amazing.

Nick:                Coincidence.

Amy:                The Lawyer Fee Strike of 2028?

Nick:                Simple coincidence.

Amy:                What about the current backlash to genetic screening?

Nick:                Magic 8-Ball?  I don't know.

Amy:                How about Brittany Taylor's experiments on him?

Mrs. Whitmore:                Nick, let's get back on the author.

Nick:                My apologies.  Rose, go ahead.  What else did you find?

Rose:                Like everyone else, I wanted to know a little bit more on my author.  We ran the queries on the Li archives and found the following which I think leads to how this story was created.  Loading video feed.

_The electronic blackboard flickers to life._

BEGIN VIDEO 

Early December, 2001.

At the end of a class, the bell rings and students leave their classes.  Mack catches up to Jodie as they go to their lockers.

Mack:                Any idea on what you're doing for the time capsule?

Jodie:                I guess I could write up a story.

Mack:                I thought you wanted to do something else.  Something you haven't done yet.

Jodie:                I know.  I haven't ruled out doing the video shoots and all.  I guess it wouldn't take that long to do it.  If I drop hints now, maybe I'll even get a video camera for Christmas.

Mack:                Let me know if you need some help.  Mack's "Schleping Service" is at your disposal.

Jodie:                Thanks, Mack.

Brittany:                Hi, guys.  Have you seen Kevin?

Jodie:                No, not recently.  Not since the other night… er… no.

Mack:                Did you hear about the fires they had the docks the other night?  Sounds like something exploded there.

Brittany:                No, we didn't hear a thing.  We weren't even there.  Why do you ask?  Have you seen Kevin?

Mack:                Not since Friday.  If we're lucky, he got himself arrested.

Brittany:                I'm sure it wouldn't be for arson.

Mack:                Um, okay.  I was thinking it might be along the lines of drunken driving.

Jodie:                Oh, yes.  That's right.  He does like his beverages.

Mack:                You two okay?

Jodie:                Uh… yeah.  Why, look, it's Jane and Daria.  Hi, guys.

Daria:                Hey.  

Jane:                Hey.  I'm telling you, Daria, you can't let them slide.  You should tell O'Neill or something.

Jodie:                What's going on?

Daria:                Nothing.

Jane:                Nothing my big patootie.

Mack:                You have a big patootie?

Jane:                Jodie, keep your testosterone-companion from looking at my patootie, would you?

Jodie:                What's a patootie anyway?

Brittany:                It's something Kevin would want, isn't it?

Jane:                I'm not saying.  But I am saying that we should all have to create our own work for this time capsule assignment.  I don't have a problem helping one another out, but I'd like to see us all start with something original.  Not copies.

Mack:                What's up, Daria?

Daria:                Oh, a couple of the J's turned in the same story with slight variations.

Mack:                Jeffy and Joey?

Daria:                Yeah.  How'd you know?

Mack:                I was there when Coach told them to do it.

Daria:                Well, I'm not too worried.  I just want to finish this up and get that picture back from Li before it's too late.

Mack:                What picture?

Daria:                What have you heard?  I had nothing to do with it.  

Mack:                I feel like I'm in a re-run.

Jane:                Welcome to my world.  I swear, it's taking forever to graduate.

Daria:                When am I getting your story, Mack?

Mack:                It's mostly… not done… so far.  I'm working on it.

Jodie:                I thought you had an idea you were working on a couple weeks ago.

Mack:                I did.  But then Joey and Jeffy found out about it and used it for their story.

Daria:                You went out with Quinn?

Mack:                Huh?  My story was about a spy fighting terrorism.

Daria:                Oh.  The secondary story.  Got it.

Jane:                Just to clear things up, you didn't go out with Quinn, did you?

Mack:                No.  Why are you even asking?

Jane:                Just wanted to make sure so Jodie doesn't have it in for you.  Right, Jodie?

Jodie:                I trust Mack, Jane.  Now stop pointing your patootie at him.  Mack, don't look at her patootie.

Mack:                What's a patootie anyway?

Daria:                Any idea on a new story then?

Mack:                I just haven't found another angle.

Brittany:                If it were me, I'd just write a story on what I want to do when I get lots older, like when I'm 25.  So none of you have seen Kevin?  If I find out he's with someone else, I'm going to put him in a world of hurt.

**VIDEO ENDS**

Rose:                And here's the follow-up to that conversation, about two weeks later.  I'm guessing in that time Mack wrote and turned in his story.

BEGIN VIDEO 

Mid-December, 2001

Mack is sitting on the floor by his locker.  Jodie, Brittany, Jane, and Daria walk up to him.  Mack gets up.

Mack:                Hey.  What's up?

Jane:                I read your story.  I can't believe I wasn't even mentioned.

Daria:                Mack, I hope you aren't mad.  But your story was very enjoyable and I knew a select crowd who would enjoy it for what it was before we buried it somewhere for the next century.

Mack:                I'm not mad.  So, what did you think of it?

Jodie:                Viagra?  I don't think so.

Brittany:                I had a hard time following it.  I tried following the parts of cheerleaders but it didn't make any sense.

Jodie:                Britt, there aren't any cheerleaders in the story.

Brittany:                Then how did Kevin end up in a wheelchair?

Daria:                Healthy living?

Jane:                More like unhealthy living with healthy beings.

Brittany:                Huh?

Jane:                You probably found out he was going out with another cheerleader.

Brittany's eyes open with sudden realization.  She lightly punches Mack on the arm.

Brittany:                I get it now.  You really do pay attention.  Thanks, Mack.

**VIDEO ENDS**

The windows automatically un-darken and the lights come up.

Ben:                What did Brittany mean by that?

Rose:                I wasn't sure until I ran a multi-thread query for an angered Brittany.  Almost every time I saw some footage of her angry the reason was Kevin doing something.  

Diana:                Those "somethings" being dating someone else?

Rose:                Yep.  I'm thinking that maybe Mack just gradually got tired of Kevin, because he kept on behaving like a clown, and as Mack got older it stopped being funny.  Basically, Mack grew up, and Kevin didn't.

Rich:                So what did you think the story meant, Rose?

Rose:                I think it can be summed up like this: Careful what you wish for because you just might get it.

Bob:                What do you mean?

Rose:                I think the story alluded to Mack wanting to stay around sports.  And that's what happened.  Yui has more on that.

Yui:                Mack Mackenzie graduated with the rest of his class in May 2002.  He went to college in California on a football scholarship, the same team as Kevin Thompson.  He played, but was no more of a standout athlete there than he was in high school.  He was cut from the team by the end of his sophomore year as he was involved in some sort of drug scandal.

Nicole:                He was a drug user?  Which kind, smack?

Yui:                Nope.  Steroids.  He was fingered as one of a dozen users on the team.  They all got cut and were sent packing from the school.  It's unclear if he was actually involved as most of the expulsions came from the result of testimony, not hard facts.  But simple truth was he was out of that school.  Mack left California and ended up going to a local college in Michigan.  Since he no longer had to concentrate on football, or possibly keeping Kevin out of trouble in football, he did very well in school.

Nicole:                Why Michigan?

Yui:                No idea.  Maybe his father was from there.  Anyway, Mack's grades were very good and he made the Dean's list his first year.  Coincidently, that was during the same time that Stanford became the #1 team with Kevin Thompson at the helm.  He graduated in 2007 with a double major, holding degrees in Broadcast Communications and Sociology.  He then moved to New York and became a cop.  From what I found on his tax records, this didn't last long.  I contacted NYPolice-PR.org to inquire about him and found that he was dismissed after five years on the force for alleged drug use.  Again, steroids.  The NYPD PR division wouldn't say if he was currently taking them when he got sacked, only that he had once taken them and had not admitted it prior to entering the academy.  
  
Mack, now off the force, took to a career in journalism.  He became a TV reporter in several small markets, not managing to get ahead, or land an anchor job.  I actually saw some of the archived footage.  He was a stiff on-camera.  Eventually, he beefed up, this time with the help of steroids.  I found an article he gave years later indicating that he began taking it after his second bum rap, when he was kicked off his beat, saying he might as well do it since he'd already been vilified for it.  
  
He quit journalism but wasn't unemployed long.  He hardened that muscle and tried out and was accepted into the WWF as Mack Daddy – an unstoppable opponent when he entered the ring.  From my conversation with Mr. Charisma last week, when Mack entered the ring and everyone started chanting his name, that seemed to energize him and he would go into a frenzy.    
  
And for some reason, he would always refer to his adversary as Kevin.  From the other stories I figured out that the "Kevin" referred to was the same Kevin Thompson who always called him Mack Daddy, a nickname which he apparently didn't care for.  I found plenty of references to that in the Li archives.  The nickname must have jazzed him up, probably getting his anger pumping.  I'm surmising that he imagined his opponents as Kevin.  I could see why he would do that considering that in the article Mack gave he mentioned he was cut from the football team because he took the rap for Kevin's steroid abuse at their coach's insistence, apparently for the "good of the team".  
  
On a side note, I went to the WWF ongoing contests site on their home page and answered an outstanding question about the "Kevin" angle.  I won the $5K grand prize and am being published in the next issue of WWF Quarterly.  Score!

Austin:                You need a money manager?

Yui:                We'll talk.  Anyway, Mack was in six matches, winning them all.  In the middle of the seventh match a crazed fan jumped into the ring and put a knife into his back.  It struck near his spinal column and he was partially paralyzed, going Dole.  The WWF claimed Mack wasn't fully vested yet in his 401K and denied any sort of pension.  As is, they barely paid most of his medical bills.  He used what savings he had left to pay the rest.  Ironically, Mack ended up working as a security guard for the same stadium where he was injured.

Nick:                Any family?

Yui:                An ex-wife.  Married her when he was a TV reporter.  They divorced shortly after he got out of the hospital and found he was broke.  No kids.

Mrs. Whitmore:                So where's Michael Mackenzie now?

Yui:                He died six years ago from heart disease brought on by steroid abuse.

Mrs. Whitmore:                Sigh.  That's too bad.  You girls should take a lesson from this.  What was his artifact?

Rose:                It was a photograph of himself, Brittany, Jodie, Daria, and Jane.  In the background you can see Kevin goofing off with a couple straws up his nose.  Additionally, there were a lot of clippings from the school paper, all by the same writer, Joe O'Toole.  The clippings usually depicted Kevin doing something stupid, such as getting his leg broken on a motorcycle or ralphing in the men's room from having consumed too much beverage.  There were also some articles of him doing something cool such as winning a school championship.  More often than not, the articles slanted towards Kevin as a buffoon, with only a few articles depicting Kevin as a good guy.  Further review of the yearbooks around that time frame found no Joe O'Toole either in the student body or on staff at Lawndale.  Best guess is it was a pseudonym for Mack.

Yui:                We've already sent a copy of the picture into the WWF for verification and have already received several bids from interested Mack Daddy fans.  A first generation scan of it could bring in some serious cash since he can be seen with several other "questionable" people.

Austin:                Seriously, you need a money manager?

Yui:                Have your people call my people.

Austin:                You don't have any "people."

Yui:                Well, then in that case, "no."

Colin:                Well, I thought the story was kind of bland.

Rose:                You're kidding, right?

John:                Hey, hey, no arctic glances in here.  We're allowed to say what we think.  And I have to agree.  It didn't keep my attention like some of the others.

Diana:                Are you kidding?  This was a great story!  It had passion, drama, love of the game, a rousing list of plays that had the blood jumping to see what happened next.  It was about the World Series!

Debbie:                It doesn't get any better than the World Series.  Unless it's the Superbowl.  Or the Stanly Cup playoffs.

Bob:                Oh, you jockettes only like it because it's about sports. 

Diane:                What's not to like?  It's simply a great story.

Bob:                Meaning, it kept your interest.

Larissa:                What's wrong with keeping interest?  Isn't that what all authors want?

Colin:                C'mon, it was still a sport story.  It's the same thing you read about every Monday morning in the sports sections.

Debbie:                It's more than that.  It's cohesion of story to a play-by-play.  It showed more than simply announcing stats.

Barry:                But it was still… just a sports story.

Diana:                So what about your tear-jerker stories?  Should I not like them since they don't have sports involved?

Nick:                People, people, we're getting a little off the subject.  We could go round and round on this and still not come up with one description or review that appeals to everyone.  Let's just agree to disagree and leave it at that.

Kara:                Nick, what did you think of the story?  Did you like it?

Mrs. Whitmore:                Good question.  Nick?

Nick:                Personally, I like all the stories.  For one specific reason.  They all show insights of the people that wrote them.  It doesn't matter if some are written better than others.  Everyone has a different taste.  What matters is that they took the time to write them in the first place.

Mrs. Whitmore:                So which did you like the best?

Nick:                I'll withhold answering that until I've heard all stories.  Speaking of… Bob, Diane, you two are up for next week.  Rose, Yui – great job, you two.

**_Next:                                      Daria's Story: This Can't Go On_**

Contact me:

Jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2003 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen). 

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed. Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you. A coincidence! To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real. Or could it? I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	15. Daria's Story This Can't Go On

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS** goes out to Mike Yamiolkoski and Thomas Mikkelsen for their patience and assistance in beta reading this story!

Location: Lawndale HS, History 363.  
Time: Now.

Nick:                                       As all of you are aware, Daria Morgendorffer was the catalyst for the time capsule.  Her comments to her friend, Jane Lane, were overheard by then-Principal Li and her security net.  Today we get to find out something about Daria.  Bob, Diane?

Bob:                When reviewing Daria's history, I thought…

Diane:                                     **You** thought?

Bob:                                        Yes, me.

Diane:                                     It's always about you, isn't it?

Bob:                                        Well… yeah.

Diane:                                     (Rolls her eyes) Go ahead.

Bob:                                        Anyway, I thought instead of just leaping into the story, we'd see a little about the creation process of it first.  Nick and I researched this over the past few weeks while Diane was out doing her nails or something…

Diane:                                     Nails.  Thanks.  Just thanks.  

Bob:                                        No problem.  Anyway, here's what I came up with.  

Diane:                                     I take it the funeral I had to go to didn't count for anything, did it?

Bob:                                        Um… Nick, let's show the footage.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

**Start Video**

March 2002.  
Location: Lawndale High library.  Time: morning.  
Daria is sitting at a library table.  She looks tense and tired at the same time.  Jane walks up.

Jane:                                       Yo, amiga.

Daria:                                      Hey.

Jane sits down at the table, across from Daria.

Jane:                                       Okay, I give.  What's wrong this time.

Daria:                                      Nothing's wrong.

Jane:                                       Sure, sure.  Whatever you say.  C'mon, this is me.  You might be able to con your folks that nothing's wrong, but I can tell when something's bugging you.

Daria:                                      Nothing's wrong, Jane.

Jane:                                       You know, I can always embarrass it out of you.  I've done it before and I can do it again.

Daria:                                      You're just plain evil, you know that?

Jane:                                       Thanks.  It's a gift.  Now spill.

Daria:                                      It's about the time capsule.

Jane:                                       Say no more.  Who's story are you working on now?  Upchuck's?

Daria:                                      Nah.  He hasn't turned it in yet.  No, this one's harder.  I'm working on mine.

Jane:                                       So what's the problem?  You're a terrific writer.  You can slap something out in no time.

Daria:                                      Um, I don't want to "slap" something out, Jane.

Jane:                                       Hah?  Why not?

Daria:                                      It's, well, I may not have wanted to do this at the beginning but now it's gotten under my skin.  I don't want to write something out because I have to.

Jane:                                       You want to write something because you want to.

Daria:                                      Right.

Jane:                                       That damned conscience of yours.  One of these days, I'm going to have to remove it.

Daria:                                      When you do, make sure I'm awake to see it go.  Anyway, now I've got writer's block.

Jane:                                       On how to end the story?

Daria:                                      On the entire story itself.

Jane:                                       You're kidding.

Daria:                                      I wish.

Jane:                                       Well, then it's a good thing I'm here.  I can help you brainstorm something up.  Hmmm, okay I'm coming up blank.  What did you come up with so far?

Daria:                                      I'd actually considered a story about Quinn.

Jane:                                       You're kidding.

Daria:                                      Nope.

Jane:                                       You killed her off, didn't you?

Daria:                                      Yep.

Jane:                                       What's the angle?

Daria:                                      Well, she had a daughter, and I end up as the parent and…

Jane:                                       Aunt Daria?  You're kidding.

Daria:                                      I may not like to work, but that doesn't mean I don't like to punch people in the nose.

Jane:                                       Promises, promises.  So you're an aunt.  Then what?

Daria:                                      That's about it.  I grow older, Quinn grows older…

Jane:                                       I thought you killed Quinn off.

Daria:                                      I did, but for some reason she thought of naming her daughter after herself.

Jane:                                       I can see that.

Daria:                                      Anyway, we all grow older, you have kids –

Jane:                                       Me?  Kids??  What did I ever do to you?

Daria:                                      You want me to start the list?  Anyway, after your 22nd kid is born, you have your tubes tied and then get to work mobilizing them all into a baseball team.

Jane:                                       Yeah, right.  You know, I ought to write another story about you.

Daria:                                      Yeah, right.  About what?

Jane:                                       I could have it so that you get a job.

Daria:                                      If a job I must have, a cushy job it better be.  Or else.

Jane:                                       Yeah, a job.  And no cushy job for you.  This one would be… dealing with traffic.

Daria:                                      Not so bad.  

Jane:                                       I'm not finished.  It's also dealing with kids.

Daria:                                      You hate me, don't you.

Jane:                                       That's right, Miss Morgendorffer, you'd get the honor of being a crossing guard's assistant.  How do you like them apples?

Daria:                                      Do I get to throw them apples at cars?

Jane:                                       Damn, you know how to take all the fun out of this, don't you.

Daria:                                      Of course.  That's my future job.  I'm going into the government.  They suck the fun out of everything.

Jane:                                       Oh, I know.  How about writing about the time you went wiggy after eating the spiked fruitcake at school.

Daria:                                      How much pain do you enjoy being in anyway?  

Jane:                                       Awww, c'mon.  I loved what you said about it at the hospital.  Ahem, "God damn.  God damn us, every one."

Daria:                                      Jane…

Jane:                                       Now **that's** Christmas cheer if I've ever heard it.

Daria:                                      I'm going to kill you if it's the last thing I ever do.

Jane:                                       Still with the promises.  You know, I should make a movie of your life.

Daria:                                      Great.  A live action movie of my live action life.  Somehow I don't see it as a blockbuster.

Jane:                                       You may be right.  Even with me in it.  It needs an angle.  Hmmm, you know…

Daria:                                      I don't like where this is going already.

Jane:                                       You haven't even heard it yet.

Daria:                                      And I don't need to.

Jane:                                       Are you so sure?

Daria:                                      With you – always.  If I had to guess, I'd say you'd want me to rewrite the Wizard Of Oz bit, playing the part of Dorothy.

Jane:                                       See, you don't know everything.  I know you don't sing.

Daria:                                      That wouldn't stop you from making a musical out of it.  And knowing you, I'd also have to deal with Quinn.  Worse yet, I'd probably get stuck there for 10 years.

Jane:                                       Hah!  I was going for an even 12 years.

Daria:                                      You're not helping.  You know that, don't you.

Jane:                                       Of course.  How else could I help you unless I didn't help you?

Daria:                                      My head hurts.  You and your accursed logic.

Jane:                                       How about redoing Cinderella and change the lead characters, renaming it to…

Daria:                                      Janerella?

Jane:                                       No.

Daria:                                      Trenterfella?

Jane:                                       I was going for Quinnderella, thank you very much.

Daria:                                      I'd just as soon as volunteer sitting for the Gupty's again.

Jane:                                       Like they'd take you up on it after what you did last time.  So what other stories have you been thinking about?

Daria:                                      I've been thinking of writing a story where Ms. Li really goes security nuts…

Jane:                                       Ah, a documentary.

Daria:                                      Almost.  Then one of her new security goons finds a gun in my locker.

Jane:                                       Won't work.  You can't even lift a gun let alone fire one.

Daria:                                      True.  But the gun was put there years ago in a secret compartment by a dope dealer.

Jane:                                       Interesting.  But where to take it from there?

Daria:                                      I'm thinking I get framed on some charges and get sent to a rehab farm where I'm thrown into padded meat-lockers for days at a time.

Jane:                                       Sure, always looking to get out of schoolwork.

Daria:                                      …only I can't figure how to end it.

Jane:                                       You could have everyone go nuts around you.

Daria:                                      Nah.

Jane:                                       You could go nuts yourself.

Daria:                                      Who said I'm not already crazy.

Jane:                                       How about, you go nuts and then take out the mental wardens.  That lands you in jail where you're then recruited by the CIA…

Daria:                                      Hey, that violates rule number 1.

Jane:                                       Ah, yes.  You don't work because work is bad.

Daria:                                      Damn straight.

Jane:                                       I've always wondered what you would be like if you did work, y'know.  Hey, alternate history.  How about that?

Daria:                                      I thought I was already in a weird version of alternate history as it stands.

Jane:                                       You are.  But what if you fell into an alternate dimension where really bad Star Trek physics ruled?

Daria:                                      You know something about physics?  I'm surprised.

Jane:                                       Okay, okay, bad example.  How about if, say, your guardian angel came along and showed you what it would have been like if you'd done this or that.

Daria:                                      Great.  Just what I need.  To suddenly find myself back in Highland, this time having traded places with Quinn.  Next thing you'll say is that I'm dating Beavis or Butt-Head or both morons.

Jane:                                       Don't knock it.  Okay, okay, I was kidding on that.  No, what I was thinking was that you could still see an alternate reality but this time your guardian angel is a jerk.

Daria:                                      You mean, a J-G-A?

Jane:                                       Jerk Guardian Angel?  Sure, whatever.  How about that?

Daria:                                      You have got to quit painting with your windows closed.

Jane:                                       You have a better idea?

Daria:                                      I've been toying with the idea of being an attack sub skipper.

Jane:                                       Violates rule #1.

Daria:                                      I'm drafted into it.

Jane:                                       So where am I in this story?  The ever-loyal friend who only sees you when you come home for shore leave?

Daria:                                      Not at all.  You're my trusty sidekick and XO.

Jane:                                       I hope you mean your executive officer and not hugs and kisses because I'm not that kind of girl.

Daria:                                      You're not?  But what about all those rumors I've been spreading around school?

Jane:                                       The one where you still get hives when you see Trent because you've got a crush on him?

Daria:                                      I don't have a crush on him.

Jane:                                       Not as bad as you once did.  But I think there's still something between you two.

Daria:                                      Yeah, it's called several miles and different lifestyles.

Jane:                                       No, this could be good.  You could write a story where you're napping in the arms of Trent…

Daria:                                      You're still trying to go the Yenta act on me after all this time?

Jane:                                       Of course not.

Daria:                                      It won't work, Jane.  What's my motivation for being there?

Jane:                                       No motivation.

Daria:                                      Then what's the story about?

Jane:                                       How about you have a dream where you're old and standing over his and my graves?

Daria:                                      Am I dancing over your grave?

Jane:                                       Hey, I happen to know you have no rhythm as well.  So no dancing.

Daria:                                      I'm going to have to sign up for one of those dance lessons one day.

Jane:                                       Okay, forget that storyline.  How about years in the future, you're married to Trent…

Daria:                                      Here we go again.

Jane:                                       Only this time you're having marital problems and you run into Tom.

Daria:                                      Stop.  That's not going to happen.  No old boyfriends in my stories.

Jane:                                       Oh.  Right.  Never mind then.

Daria:                                      Thanks.

Jane:                                       Then I guess it'll have to be a story about us.

Daria:                                      Hey, I'm not that kind of girl.

Jane:                                       Hush, you sweet thing you.  No, what I was thinking was you write about your 16th birthday when I had to practically break down your door to find out why you weren't celebrating it while Quinn was whooping it up.

Daria:                                      I'm not going to the past to dredge up some memories.  Not unless it's about Quinn having whooping cough.  Besides, I want to write about something in the future.

Jane:                                       Hey, I know.  How about writing about the Lane/Morgendorffer family reunion.

Daria:                                      What Lane/Morgendorffer family reunion?

Jane:                                       The one that happens nine years from now.

Daria:                                      Look, Jane.  I said I wasn't interested in Trent…

Jane:                                       Who said it had anything to do with you?  Make it Quinn and Trent being married.

Daria:                                      Now you're just being cruel to Trent.

Jane:                                       I'm his sister.  What did you expect?

Daria:                                      I'll think about it.

Jane:                                       You know, you could always write about the time I had the fake allergy attack when I ate dinner at your house.  Remember?  Where I implied I was allergic to oregano?

Daria:                                      Yeah, I remember.  And no.  I'm looking for something else.  I think I could do that one as a comedy but I'm not looking to write just a comedy.

Jane:                                       What are you looking to write?  Drama?

Daria:                                      I'm thinking more along the lines of sick and twisted.

Jane:                                       Ah yes, the old sick and twisted route.  Going for another revisit of LawnCON, eh?

Daria:                                      Actually I was thinking of writing about you getting an exhibition room at a museum.

Jane:                                       That doesn't sound sick and twisted.

Daria:                                      It will be when you find out that you need to speak to the public as a condition to get the room.

Jane:                                       You really are sick and twisted.

Daria:                                      You're just trying to get on my good side.

Jane:                                       You have a good side?

Daria:                                      Of course.  But it's buried beneath ten metaphysical layers of cynicism.  

Jane:                                       I thought that was ten lords a leaping.

Daria:                                      Hah?

Jane:                                       You know, ten lords a leaping, nine something… something, eight swans a swimming, seven geese attacking, six feet under, five g-o-l-d-e-n rings and so on.

Daria:                                      And did we remember to take our Prozac today?

Jane:                                       Hey, my bowl movements are my own business from now on.

Daria:                                      I have got to remember to take aspirin before talking to you – not after.

Jane:                                       Thanks.  I'm sure there was a compliment in there.

Daria:                                      You know, I think the sick and twisted route is the way to go.

Jane:                                       Well, at least I get my own room at the gallery.

Daria:                                      Oh, no.  Not anymore.  I changed my mind.

Jane:                                       Why do I feel like I just stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Daria:                                      Maybe because instead of the art gallery angle, you get to go around school and inform everyone of head lice.

Jane:                                       You suck.

Daria:                                      Thank you.

Jane:                                       Does this at least get me out of gym class?

Daria:                                      No.  But something else does.

Jane:                                       Wonderful.  What is it?  Do I get hit by a car?

Daria:                                      Nope.  Better.  You get to join marching band.

Jane:                                       Oooh, band.  Now there's a horror story if I ever saw one.  Or a comedy.  Take your pick.

Daria:                                      I pick horror.

Jane:                                       I knew you would.  But wouldn't it be interesting if you joined the band as well.

Daria:                                      I said horror, not self-defeating.

Jane:                                       No, not marching band.  Mystik Spiral.  And, what if they had a world tour and we went with them?

Daria:                                      The Magical Mystik Spiral Tour?  You've got to be kidding.  I'd have to be crazy to write something like that.

Jane:                                       Got any better ideas?

Daria:                                      Well, if I'm looking for crazy, I could always write about my dad going nuts looking for that stupid garden gnome.

Jane:                                       I forgot about that.  What about the time he tried to bond with you and Quinn on yet another road trip?

Daria:                                      Don't remind me.

Jane:                                       Okay.  How about writing about the time Upchuck bonded with some psychotic chipmunks when we all had to do that mandatory camp thing of Ms. Li's?

Daria:                                      Where'd that come from?

Jane:                                       Inspiration?

Daria:                                      Sounds more like desperation.

Jane:                                       Potato, po-tot-o.  At least I didn't bring up the time he nearly blew himself up with that compress O Matic 4000.

Daria:                                      If he'd managed to blow himself up properly, then at least I could have written about it.

Jane:                                       Too late.  The papers already did.

Daria:                                      True, but my take on it would have been a little bit funnier.  Especially when I implicated Sandi in a cover up of Upchuck photo kissing proportions.

Jane:                                       Now you're back to comedy?  Because if you're going to do that, then I think you should write about the time you convinced Brittany I was a hallucination so you could go out on a date with Kevin.

Daria:                                      I didn't want to go out with Kevin, Jane!

Jane:                                       Yeah, that's what you always said but you know, we hallucinations always know what's going on inside your head.  It's a brain thing.

Daria:                                      You're about to start seeing some hallucinations yourself.  It's a pain thing.

Jane:                                       There's an angle.

Daria:                                      What?  Beating you up?

Jane:                                       In your wildest dreams maybe.  No, a pain thing.  Write about when Quinn got her pimple and everyone in school thought she was dying.

Daria:                                      Um.  I already wrote about that.

Jane:                                       You did?

Daria:                                      Um.  Yeah.

Jane:                                       And?

Daria:                                      Decided to publish it.

Jane:                                       And?!

Daria:                                      Like I said, decided to publish it.

Jane:                                       Where?  C'mon, details.

Daria:                                      Well, I put it under a pseudonym and then put it out on the internet.

Jane:                                       I want to read it.  Give me the address.

Daria:                                      Forget it.  Finding it is up to you.

Jane:                                       I will.  Don't worry.  Okay, that story's a bust.  C'mon, think.  What else can you write about?

Daria:                                      I suppose I could write about my mom's work obsession.

Jane:                                       Where to start?

Daria:                                      I'd thought of writing about the time she ran for mayor.

Jane:                                       Yeah?

Daria:                                      But then I thought better of it.

Jane:                                       Why?

Daria:                                      I may complain about her, but I actually like my mother.  She does try in her own way.

Jane:                                       Yeah.  I know where you're coming from.  Okay, new topic.  How about writing when your cousin Lara came from New York to stay with you and ended up threatening Quinn's popularity?

Daria:                                      Jane, you know I don't have a cousin named Lara let alone would want to write about popularity.

Jane:                                       Yeah, I know.  I'm just grasping at anything here.  Whoa.  Almost time for class.  C'mon, I'm your sounding board.  Gimme another shot to help you out.  I need another topic.

Daria:                                      Well… no.

Jane:                                       Give.

Daria:                                      We've gotta go to class.

Jane:                                       Not until you give.

Daria:                                      Fine.  I've been thinking of a real topic.

Jane:                                       Give.

Daria:                                      I've been thinking of what it would be like to leave Lawndale.

Jane:                                       Details.

Daria:                                      Well, suppose my father got a new job.  That meant we'd have to relocate.

Jane:                                       Where?

Daria:                                      I was thinking down south.  Near the border.  We move.  Now I need to fit into a new school.

Jane:                                       Doesn't sound all that bad.

Daria:                                      Yeah, well, what if the locals didn't like us?  And what if a girl my age tried to kill me?

Jane:                                       Now that sounds more like your style.

Daria:                                      You think?

Jane:                                       You getting the crap beaten out of you?  Maybe killed?  I'd pay to read that.

Daria:                                      How much money you got?

Jane:                                       And just how long have you known me?

Daria:                                      Stupid question on my part.  Apologies.

Jane:                                       Accepted.

Daria:                                      Anyway, it's either that or write about leaving home to go to college.

Jane:                                       Harvard?  Yale?

Daria:                                      Nah.  I'm thinking of Willmore University.  Somehow I get screwed out of a scholarship and have to work my way through school.

_The class bell rings.  Students get up from desks and exit the library as new students come in.  Jane and Daria gather up their books and are leaving._

Jane:                                       So how exactly did I manage to steal your scholarship anyway?

Daria:                                      Who said it was you?

Jane:                                       After all the scheming we've done together?  C'mon, give me a little credit where credit's due.

Daria:                                      All right.  I figure you managed to blackmail my mom.

Jane:                                       I thought you liked your mom.

Daria:                                      I do.  Doesn't mean I can't pick on her, though.

Jane:                                       You are one strange girl you know that?

Daria:                                      Flattery will get you everywhere one of these days.

Jane:                                       But not with you?

Daria:                                      You do know me.

End Video

Diane:                                     Once I saw the creation process…

Bob:                                        **You** saw?

Diane:                                     Yes, "**me**" saw.

Bob:                                        It's always about you, isn't it?

Diane:                                     It is this time.  Anyway, after we saw the creation process, we put a little thought into the end result.  

Bob:                                        Specifically, since Daria was acting as the managing editor for all story submissions, who would review hers?

Diane:                                     So Nick obliged us with more scanning of the Li archive and this is what we found.  Nick?

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

Start Video

April 2002.  
Location: Lawndale High hallway, by lockers.  Time: afternoon.  
Jane is getting ready and Daria thinks of something to say.  She hesitates and then finally says it.

Daria:                                      Jane, could you read something for me?

Jane:                                       Hey, the last time I had to read something for you resulted in embarrassment for me, so no thanks.

Daria:                                      No it didn't.

Jane:                                       Sure it did.

Daria:                                      I don't think so.

Jane:                                       Duck season.

Daria:                                      Rabbit season.

Jane:                                       I forget.  Am I the duck or the rabbit?

Daria:                                      I think you're a chicken.

Jane:                                       Now them's fightin' words.  So whatdaya got?  Something good for class that I can indiscriminately borrow?

Daria:                                      Yeah, right, you being indiscriminant.  That'll be the day.  When pigs fly, maybe.

Kevin:                                    Yo, Mack-Daddy, I'm going long!  Throw the ball!!  

(Kevin runs, then jumps, flying past the girls, landing in a heap a few feet down while Mack walks past, still holding the football, and shaking his head)

Jane:                                       Ha!  Got you on a technicality.  Now you have to let me read it.

Daria:                                      Didn't I ask you to read it to begin with?

Jane:                                       You might have, but I'm not saying since it takes the fun away from having to force it out of you.

Daria:                                      Okay, I got that one.  Here.  (Hands over some papers)

Jane:                                       What is it?

Daria:                                      My story for the time capsule.

Jane:                                       Really?

Daria:                                      No, it's Quinn's story.

Jane:                                       My hand's starting to blister from the perfume stink already.

Daria:                                      Jane, it's mine, okay?  Just read it.

Jane:                                       Why?

Daria:                                      Rabbit season!

Jane:                                       Duck season!

Daria:                                      You'll read it?

Jane:                                       Why not?  It's better than trading duck season phrases with you all day.

Daria:                                      Flattery will not save you this time, Lane.

Jane:                                       You should try it with some evil laughter.  It might sound better.  Hey, I just thought.  Is this the story I helped you with?

Daria:                                      You helped me?

Jane:                                       It is, isn't it?  Oh, boy, I can't wait.

**End Video**

**This Can't Go On**

**by Daria Morgendorffer**

**(Transcribed by Steven Brown)**

© September 2003

        In an effort to soften relationships with galactic neighbors, the Phipian Chamber of Commerce recently released the following statement to the galactic press:

Aarrr.  We don't recommend you stopping on any of the planets orbiting star PH-IP6244, even if your engines fail and you are locked in a downward spiral in our planet's gravity well while carrying a cargo of explosive combustibles.  Ever.  If you need to come to our planet, kill yourself first.  It's less painful that way.  However, if you do land and manage to exit any of our planetary bodies relatively alive and make your way back to your end of civilization, **and** are functioning mentally sufficient enough to remember your stay and subsequent recreational tortures without going into long weeks of screaming flashbacks, we would love to talk to you to see where we can improve.

        This was, as it turned out, the most positive spin on their planet they could devise.

*********

 (Translated from Glenichian.)

        A long time ago, roughly 5000 Glenichs in the past, the third (and, thankfully, only inhabited) planet orbiting the star PHIP (which stood for People for Hospitality and Improved Perfection by its inhabitants, and that the rest of the galaxy considered it Pest-Hole-of-Immense Proportion as it was on the "wrong side of the tracks, and then some") had a somewhat seemingly insignificant occurrence take place that changed its entire course of history.

        "Hey," said Neja Lnea as she walked into the bedroom.

        "Hey," came the response as Neja walked over to the desk in the room where the voice emanated from. 

        "Look what I bought at the flea market today."

        "Not more fleas for an art project this time, is it?"

        "Not even close.  It's a pen."

        "You know, I could have given you one of mine."

        "Ah, but this is a special pen.  The label de jour says, 'Kool Radioactive Pen.  Use a Kool for writing at night.'"

        "You going to keep it?" asked her best friend, Iraad Fermogfrendor.

        "Sure. Hate to see a good pen go to waste.  Might come in handy, writing at night."

        "You sure you want to keep something that's radioactive?" Iraad remembered to show her concern like a good friend would.

        "Oh, I'm sure it's just a marketing ploy.  I can't think of the harm."

        "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

        Neja smiled and said, "Oh, you have a bad feeling about everything.  Don't worry.  Everything will be fine."

*********

        Early the next morning, Iraad slipped on her green jacket and walked over to her friend's house.  She rang the doorbell and a few minutes later Neja walked out, schoolbooks in hand.

        "Um, Neja," Iraad began.  "I'm not so sure buying that pen was a good idea."

        "How'd we get back on the pen issue?  I thought we were planning the downfall of Venik and his fmeezball cohorts."

        "We were, but then I took another look at you.  I just thought you were late getting up this morning and hadn't gotten a chance to brush yet."

        "Am I really that scary today?" Neja asked, amused.

        "You're growing a second head," Iraad stated flatly.

        "Whew.  You had me thinking I was a fashion violation or something."

        "Neja, you're growing a **_second head_**!"

        "Yeah?  And?"

        "It's a second head!"

        "Don't worry about it.  After all, you know what they say."

        "'Two heads are better than one?'" Iraad guessed.

        "There you go again reading my mail.  You owe me twenty-five gleens.  C'mon, let's get to school."

*********

        Early the next morning Iraad again stopped at her friend's house and rang the doorbell.  This time, Neja's brother, Nertt answered.

        "Hey, Iraad," he said, opening the door for her to come in out of the red morning.

        "Nertt," Iraad responded.  "Neja ready yet?"

        "Not yet.  She says she's having problems with her outfit.  You want to go on up?"

        "Thanks."  Iraad went up the stairs and down the hall to her friend's bedroom.  She opened the door, saying, "Yo!  Neja!  You need help yet or what?"

        "What do you think?" came the testy reply.

        "Neja, you have a third leg growing from your backside."

        "Worse, now I don't have anything to wear today.  Guess it's streaking time for old Neja."

        "Neja!  A **_third leg_**!"

        "Hey, I heard you the first time."

        "All right, where's that Kool Radioactive Pen you bought?  Let me see it.  Let's see… hrmmm… Ah, here it is.  You didn't read the fine print, did you?"

        "What fine print?"

        "And you think I need glasses?  It says, 'Due to radioactive content, radiation exposure could bring on nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, growth of second head, blood in stool, longer living if you get the lucky dose, drooling if you don't, irritability and third leg spurts.  Brought to you by Truth In Advertising Company.'"

        "Hey, I'm not irritable," Neja pointed out.

        "I'm not saying you were."

        "Arrr, what do you know anyway!!"

        "I know I'm taking this pen away from you."

*********

        The next day, a reluctant student sat in the principal's office, under a harsh glare.  "Neja, do you know why you were brought to this office today?" The principal asked.

        Neja replied, "Would it have anything to do with my grades?"

        "No.  It would have to do with your shooting of all the fmeezballs in school with your ancient lead-projectile weapon."

        "That's good, because I'm thinking of cutting classes for the rest of the year and I don't need to have my grades affected."

        "Neja, you shot 37-fmeezballs!"

        "Arrr.  I resent that.  It was only 35."

        "While the fmeezball team was using them!!"

        "Yeah?  And?  It looked like the fun thing to do at the time, right twosy?"

        Neja's second head, which mirrored her primary head, replied, "Yeah.  What my other half said."

        "Neja – don't you… two … have any goals in life?"

        Primary Neja replied, "I want to conquer the galaxy."

        And secondary Neja stated, "And maybe get my nails done. Harr-harr-harr!"

*********

        "Hey, something smells good in here," Iraad said, coming into the kitchen.

        "It's called dinn… er… Iraad?  Is there something you want to tell me?"

        "No, mom."

        "Iraad, are you growing a second head?"

        "…maybe."

        "It's drugs again, isn't it?  I don't know how many times I've told you kids not to do drugs.  Just you wait until your father gets home."

        "Speak of the devil," Iraad muttered as the kitchen door opened and an excited male burst in.

        "Honey?  Guess what?!  I got the account!"

        "You did?  Oh, Kaje, that's wonderful!  Um, what account?"

        "You remember me talking about it the other day, don't you?  It's this Truth In Advertising Company's latest product – a pen with luminous ink so you can write at night!  And I landed the entire regional account!  This is great!"

        "Yeah, great," Iraad monotoned. 

        "I was so excited to learn I had the account that I went down to the loading bay, picked up a couple cases of samples and already handed them out to all the kids at the high school.  Iraad, you be sure to let me know what happens, okay?  Let's see if we can't drum up some business!"

        "Swell.  Just peachy," Iraad groused, understanding too well what had just happened.  She was sure going to let Neja know what was on her mind.  After dinner.  Twosy was getting a little hungry.

*********

5000 Glenichs, and 218 solar systems later:

        The glorious Captain Neja Lnea and her four senior officers surveyed their handiwork on Conquered Planet #218 [ref. CP#218, circa Srot5123 - 12.06].  They stood at the base of their spherical ship, impressively as they had the last 217 times, though none more impressive as the glorious Captain Lnea.  With hands on hips and hands shading numerous eyes, they watched as crewmembers hauled loot up ramps while listening to the faint crackling and popping of the planet's last remaining defense base being nuked out of existence.

        The alien capital city of OCIBCSI (pronounced "Ossie-bossie"), which stood for "Our City Is Built Come See It," burned in the distance, turning the reddish sky an off-gray with soot and ash.  Whatever vegetation existed around the Phipian ship that hadn't been crushed by immense landing gear or incinerated by landing rockets (which were really just for show as the captain enjoyed a good scorched terrain tactic to begin any invasion), slowly died from asphyxiation as well as from the lack of sunlight and whatever water had been in the area.

        CP#218 had been named FTGOACHIOP (pronounced Fet-Go-A-Chee-Op) meaning, "For The Glory Of All Creation Here Is Our Planet" by its inhabitants for thousands of solar rotations around its orange star.  But as the population of 256,724,322 FTGOACHIOPians were currently and undeniably dead, CP#218 had been unofficially renamed HBTDG-SSE (Here Be The Dead Guys—So Screw 'Em) by a Phipian with a sense of humor, of which at least one is born each generation.  However, as the humorous Phipian responsible was not part of the command crew, that reference was naturally edited out of the official conquest records and the Phipian reprimanded in a humorous way by being pushed down the ship's stairwell.  While that sentence seemed light to some, the Phipian ship had 2006 levels and the stairwell zigzagged the entire way up, or down in this case.  And it came as no surprise to Captain Neja Lnea that when the pushed Phipian reached the bottom, he needed some serious aspirin to dull his two-headed headaches.  She could have simply had the Phipian executed, but chances were that if she'd done that her brother wouldn't talk to her anymore and would simply publish the blackmail pictures of her during their younger days where she studied hard in school, trimmed her nails, and had joined the young Republicans.  No, better the glorious Captain Neja Lnea pay him a percentage of the take and keep his kid safe than have those pictures published in the Daily Phipian.

        Captain Lnea and her officers enjoyed overseeing the loading of the city's riches and booty.  Cranes hoisted bundles and bundles of precious stones, easily found greasy foods, scavenged weapon power sources and raw metals.  Nearly all the bundles went into massive cargo holds where Phipian labor crews systematically tagged, labeled and cross-referenced the items.  Once the cargo was safely cataloged and stored, it was then ignored until the Phipians returned to their homeworld, which was several times a year.

        A few bundles were strapped to the exterior of the ship by members of the crew wanting that "something extra" to remember a planet by.  Similar to an earthling carrack, the ship's racks were standard issue for explorer ships and their courageous crews.  The bundles lashed to the ship often contained alive and squirming critters that a Phipian wanted to bring home as a pet for his kid to shoot.  Unfortunately, most Phipians didn't stop to consider that a leather tarp simply wasn't adequate protection from the cold of deep space and so those few creatures that survived the trauma of launch tended to perish seconds after leaving a planet's troposphere.  The fact there was no breathable air in space didn't help either.

        The loading nearly complete, the remaining unneeded ground personnel sauntered up the ramps into the ship.  Never in conquesting time had one of the glorious conquerors walked anyplace.  They always sauntered.  They acted as if they owned the entire galaxy.  And judging by the glorious Captain Lnea's performance record over the previous 217 conquests, that possibility wasn't far off.

        "Arrr.  It's decided then?" the glorious Captain Neja Lnea asked (in stereo) of her officers.

        "Arrr.  Right.  We keep heading Galactic East until we come to the next planet," said the incredible First Officer Nuniq Fermogfrendor, checking her clipboard.  "Our probes have intercepted transmissions from a planet containing a variety of sentient life forms far in abundance to what we've seen on the previous 218 singular-sentient planets.  The locals call it Earth and call themselves earthlings.  Aren't they a clever bunch?"  She rolled an eyestalk on her right head on the right side around and around for emphasis to indicate she was implying the opposite of her last statement.  "The planet contains a dominant humanoid species.  They shouldn't be too hard to handle, as the grubs on this planet were also bipeds and they all dropped dead when they saw us."

        "Harr harr harr!" chorused the amused fashionable officers, remembering the ease of taking the planet and plundering its booty.

        Witty Fermogfrendor continued.  "Arrr.  There may also be other intelligent species on this planet.  Several transmissions indicate an intelligent quadruped species whose leaders are either a "Francis" or a "Mr. Ed."  A mammal called "Flipper" seems to interact with earthlings as well from one of their oceans."

        "Arrr.  Doesn't sound so hard," commented the highly intelligent Captain Lnea.

        "Arrr.  Some of these humanoids appear to hold special powers, captain.  Transmissions indicate there are four musicians who can even mutate into superbeings called "_Monkeymen."  We'll probably have to nuke them.  There also seems to exist a proliferation of undead walking this planet."_

        "Arrr.  As long as none of them have two heads, screw 'em!  Standard incineration rules for the undead!" ordered the confident Captain, taking a last look at her handiwork in the distance.

        "Arrr.  Noted, captain.  One thing working in our favor is that this alien race seems very chaotic and not very civilized.  They seem to revel in… harr harr harr… get this: _free love_, feeling it has some sort of special significance.  What a bunch of losers!"

        "Harr harr harr!" chorused the amused lovely officers yet again.

        Wiping a laugh-tear away from her first and fifth eyestalks on each head, First Officer Fermogfrendor asked, "Arrr.  Do you want to issue any special instructions, captain?"

        "Arrr.  What the hell for?  We'll approach the aliens openly and off-guard.  Once welcomed to their planet, we plunder, plunder, plunder.  Harr harr harr!!"

        "Arrr.  But what do we do with the intelligent quadrupeds?" asked Ensign Halmeic Ziecenmak.

        "Arrr," replied the first officer.  "The same thing the humans do when they decide to get rid of them.  We shoot them.  Harr harr harr!!"

        "Harr harr harr!!" laughed the rest of the Phipians.

        "Arrr.  Now back to business," said glorious Captain Lnea.  "What about lunch!"

        "Arrr.  Excuse me, your gloriousness-es," said a Phipian cabin boy holding what looked like a camera with spikes surrounding it.  "But would you like a picture of your impressive self and your officers in front of the burning city for your scrapbook?"

        "Arrr.  Why not?  And you—_well_?!"

        Ensign Halmeic Ziecenmak checked his space-daytimer and said, "Arrr.  We have reservations in the ship's Space Burger-N-Other Charred Flesh."

        "Arrr.  Fine.  Now that that's settled, what's the name of the primary city on Earth we're heading for?"

        "Arrr.  Lawndale," informed the well-proportioned First Officer.  In the background, the huge ship, **_PLANET RAVAGER: Now Serving 218_** electronically blinked its name to, **_PLANET RAVAGER: Now Serving 219_**. 

        "Arrr.  Say 'killing spree' for the camera," said the lowly cabin boy.

        The five officers stood next to each other and grinned for the holopoloroid.

*********

        The **_PLANET RAVAGER, Now Serving 219_** was a huge ship dedicated to one function: conquest.  It was designed to house 20,000 crewmembers with four senior officers and one junior officer raised from the ranks when needed.  Ensign Halmeic Ziecenmak was the latest Ensign, and also the longest one to retain his job, shattering the previous record of three and a half months by several hours and counting.

        On plundering explorations between stops at their home world, Phipian ships usually went through an average of four Ensigns.  Ziecenmak knew that the odds were with him as Ensign Alsakfernlake Jones, his predecessor, had been the fifth one Captain Lnea had executed.  And that had been 26-landings back.  If he could survive another 31 landings, he knew he would be bumped up to Third Officer and the others bumped up too as the captain would retire with an incredible amount of wealth like the previous captain, Iraad Fermogfrendor had done.

        Captain Lnea was a harsh Phipian, and cruel to the core, but what captain wasn't?  She gave every officer under her command enough rope to work on their own (and not bother her when the soaps were on) as well as to hang themselves and not implicate her when things went bad.  Alsakfernlake's problems had started on CP#192.  He was allowed to lead the landing party and in his hurry had defiled the age-old custom from Phipian Prime of waiting for a formal welcoming into a new planet's society before going about plundering its riches.  Alsakfernlake started negotiations by shooting the first person he saw when they had landed instead of waiting for a "Howdy" or "Welcome to our planet."  For as any intelligent species knew, putting out a verbal "_WELCOME MAT_" only invited trouble.  Ergo, any species that invited trouble was asking to be plundered.

        Besides, not waiting for a welcome was just downright rude, and no matter how immoral, amoral, antisocial, ruthless, bitter, savage, nasty, disgusting, psychotic, sociopathic, paranoid, and malicious the Phipians were, they were not rude.  

        Ironically, it was this awareness of their place in the universe that kept the Phipians sane and self-employed.  And the welcoming ritual that Alsakfernlake had bypassed had meant no plunder.  While Neja could have plundered the planet without the welcome, or at least gotten the welcome by placing a blaster to the head of an inhabitant, she was concerned of a mutiny among her crew for bypassing customs.  And while Neja knew any mutiny would, of course, be halted through the generous use of poison gas, it would have been a larger hassle to have to train an entirely new crew.  Therefore, to ensure that the Phipian High Command never heard of this, and to quell any resentment (well, any **more** resentment), Capt. Lnea had ordered the entire planet incinerated without getting the loot.  Of course, Alsakfernlake had to go after that.  

*********

        Traveling from planetary system to planetary system involved crossing unimaginably long distances, which took the better part of a week.  Six and a half days later, the **_PLANET RAVAGER_ landed in the designated spot on the visual transmission they had intercepted.  The huge spaceship, fully 12,000 cubic meters with thousands of armaments shoved in every conceivable nook and cranny, touched down on Continent 3, ref. North American Continent, subsection United States of America, ref. Texas State, subref. Lawndale, dest. Lawndale Park.**

        A ramp extended as two blue-and-black clad individuals (who wore the metal badges recognizable from transmissions that indicated they were part of humanity's paramilitary security force) approached the ship.  The five courageous command officers triumphantly sauntered down the ramp, triumphant grins on both heads on each body for a total of ten grins.  Burned grass and trees could almost be seen smoldering under the ship.  Or would have been if they hadn't been crushed under the weight of the ship.

        "Harr harr harr!  Earthlings, you need not cringe as you see us in our full glory!  We welcome you properly to the greater galaxy of commerce and brotherhood!"  And together, ten mouths "harred" their loudest while 70-eyes (seven-eyes per head) took in the sight of the bored looks on both earthlings.

        "Arrr.  You may welcome us to your fine fair city if you must, we certainly won't stop you!" Captain Lnea commanded modestly.  She knew that one slip from the ugly furless alien was all she needed to appease the crew (and Phipian Prime), and then the world was hers!  Plunder, plunder, plunder!!

        One earthling then dared to approach the mighty Captain Lnea, pulled out a suspicious pocket sized notebook and said, "Look, pal, if I coulda survived a revitalized disco era, I kin survive some badly clothed, two-headed, fourteen-eyed green-furred geeky aliens!  So no lip, see!"

        Captain Lnea's lower mouth gaped while the obnoxious alien conversed with her paramilitary partner.  They were probably discussing between themselves the proper way to welcome a Phipian, her heads thought.

        "Arrr.  Hmmmm," Ensign Ziecenmak muttered, noting how the aliens ignored the Captain's clever ploy to get them to welcome the Phipians to the city.  "They may be more advanced than we thought."

        The obnoxious alien returned to the Captain and said in a snotty tone, "Hey, pal, dis yer vehicle or what?" she pointed at the massive ship with a finger glistening with native hot dog grease on it.

        "Arrr.  Well, certainly this is our vessel.  The mighty **_PLANET RAVAGER_ goes where it pleases in all the cosmos!"**

        "Whatever, pal," muttered the human.  The human licked a wooden writing stick and began scribbling while walking around the incredible ship, poking it every now and then.

        The glorious captain accompanied the paramilitary security officer, all the while listening to the human murmur, "…illegally parked …no bumpers in front or rear …excessive weapons obstructing driver's view…" and so on.  Then the human asked, "No permit to land inna park, I take it?"  

        "Arrr.  Urm, no."

        "Uh-huh," she uh-huhed like a human who knew she was going to meet quota early this month.  The fiend!

        The human continued mumbling and scratching the paper with some sort of unintelligible scribbling law-enforcement officials the galaxy over tended to specialize in while the captain followed a respectful distance behind, her upper arms crossed over her chest.  Captain Lnea's two heads, like nearly all Phipians these days, were attached to a torso twice as thick as the measly human's.  Although wider, her torso was only slightly taller than a human's, the extra room accommodating her four arms.  The arms were set near each other, the lower limbs growing out a snug 28-centimeters below the upper limbs.  The arms were so close to one another that the most comfortable position for the upper arms when they weren't in use was to leave them folded across the chest and the stomach.  When the upper arms simply hung down, they bumped the lower limbs.  The lower arms were quadruple-jointed, enabling either head (which could maneuver 180-degrees like an earthling owl) to direct the arms on the backside.

        The other paramilitary human walked up to the always sophisticated First Officer Nuniq Fermogfrendor and said, "Hey, pal.  Just a friendly woid of advice.  Don't try hidin' those weapons you got all over yer body.  We got tough laws around here for people carryin' concealed weapons.  Youse understand?"

        "Arrr.  You sound like my mother."

        "Just do it, an' no back tawk."

        After scrawling furiously for 20-minutes, the paramilitary security human ripped several inches of paper out of her pad and shoved them into a startled Captain Lnea's lower hand.  The human said, "I'm impoundin' yer ship until youse gets da proper papers ta land it in da park.  Youse do know what papers I'm tawkin' about, don'tcha?"

        The glorious captain and his crew did not bother to dignify the question with an answer.

        "Damn tourists" muttered the human.  "Look, whatcha need is a permit, see?"

        "Arrr.  Where do we get this _permit?" asked a cautious Ensign Halmeic Ziecenmak._

        "City Hawll."

*********

        "Arrr.  What do you mean, you don't have the permit?!" questioned the tough Captain to one of her crew several days later.

        "Arrr.  It's protected by some sort of government hurdle, Cap," replied the soon to be dead crewman.

        "Arrr.  What kind of hurdle?"

        "Arrr.  It starts with a long line…"  

        Zzzzapppp.

        The crewman stopped explaining as he looked down with curiosity at the dripping five-inch tunnel drilled through his body before dying with a look of immense stupidity still written upon its countenance.

        "Arrr.  That's what the last lackey said when he came back empty handed!" shouted the forceful Captain to an unloving recipient.

        "Arrr,  And that's the same result!" started Ensign Halmeic Ziecenmak.  "That's the fourth crewman you've gotten rid of in the last few days, Captain."  He looked around the Captain's "ready" room, silently thinking of having it renamed "large blat of red goo on the cabin wall that any earthling might easily mistake for chunky salsa" room.

        "Arrr.  Round up the staff, Halmeic.  The crew's getting restless for plunder.  We need to get this ourselves."

*********

        The glorious Captain Neja Lnea, incredible First Officer Nuniq Fermogfrendor, dashing Second Officer Idsan Fifnrig, suave Third Officer Cytas Wore, and wondrous Ensign Halmeic Ziecenmak showed the line of humans near them that a Phipian showed no fear when encountering new concepts, such as standing in line.  Or standing in a long line.  Or even a very, very, _very long line._

        "Harr harr harr!  See, Captain?  The line moves already!" harred the incredible Fermogfrendor.

        "Harr harr harr!" chorused the other three officers to a scowling captain.

        "Hey, pal!" a rude human somewhere in front of them commanded as the line came to another sudden halt after advancing three centimeters.  "Put a sock innit!  I'm trying ta read some forms over here!"

*********

        "So then after that operation, my doctor said it was time for a checkup.  I tell you, never have I felt such cold equipment," a graying, diminutive human with hardly any head fur to mention wheezingly informed the glorious captain and her crew.  He was different than the other humans in that he had many dark spots over his sagging skin.  "If my son had been a doctor instead of a car salesman, I'm sure he would've had the decency to warm up his instruments before putting them on me."

        "Arrr.  Captain, can't I torture him just a little bit?" whispered Idsan Fifnrig when the human wasn't paying attention.

        "Arrr.  Idsan, how many times do I have to tell you.  Until we get that permit, we have to tread the human way."

        "Arrr.  Yeah, yeah.  'When on Gladnuflicknasdas, do as the Gladnuflicknasdasians do,'" Fifnrig recalled the age-old expression.

        "Arrr.  Didn't we kill the entire Gladnuflicknasdasian population?" asked Ensign Ziecenmak.

        "Arrr.  Yes," agreed the pretty captain.  "But only after we negotiated landing privileges first."

        "Harr harr harr!" harred the group.

        "Look, pal!" again bellowed the ominous voice somewhere ahead of the captain.  "I said knock it off!  I'm readin' here!  Don' make me come back there an' teach you knuckleheads a lesson!"

*********

        Time passed slowly—agonizingly slow, as if being sucked into a black hole or being monopolized by visiting in-laws.  There were only so many comical anecdotes they could bring up before reminiscing got stale.  The line went to only one window.  Centimeter by centimeter it crawled.

        Finally, they were the next in line.  Hopes soared!

        "Harr harr harr!  We are near the end of the line, captain!  Once we have the permit to land in the park, we'll take over this city and then the planet.  Then we'll have this world's riches!  And nobody'll tell us to put a sock in it!  Harr harr harr!" harred the charismatic First Officer Fermogfrendor.

        They approached a piece of timber nearly two meters tall, stretching five meters from wall to wall with a 10 by 5 by 20-centimeter rectangular vertical wooden mini-plank separating the horizontal slab into two equal areas of operation.  They did not bother to notice the workmanship of the wood, or translate its fine native inscriptions of, "Suicide Be De Pits, So Shut The Hell Up Before I Kick The Crap Out Of You", "Jo-Jo Wuz Here!" or "Jo-Jo Can Kiss My Big Hairy Butt" before the human clerk put up an _Out To Lunch - See Next Window sign with an arrow pointing to the left.  An immediate stampede to the now open left window ensued, leaving the Phipians behind.  The stared at the new line they had to stand in, two mouths on each head gaping wide.  _

        "Arrr.  Hey!  That's not fair!" protested Ensign Ziecenmak to an uncaring human race.  The bastards!

*********

        "Thank you for holding my knitting bag, sonny," said a hunchbacked human female with a thousand visible wrinkles under a matting of black fake head fur.  Six-centimeter long eye coverings protected two tiny black dots that must have been her eyes.

        "Arrr.  Did you get your fangs back in?"

        "The time?  I'm sorry.  I think I left my watch back in the bathroom.  I'd better go back and get it.  But I got my teeth back in, see?" she asked, smiling through bright red lips.

        Ensign Ziecenmak recoiled in shock.  It was one thing to see a mouthful of chompers fall out of a human's mouth, but it was something else to see how white they were.  No proper color at all other than some red smearing obviously from the lip paint.

        "Arrr.  By all means, return to the excrement room," supplied an annoyed Captain Lnea.

        "I'll be right back, sonny," said the old human.  To the Captain she said, "You have such a nice son.  He's so polite, and he looks just like you."  She shuffled back down the line.

        Fifnrig and Wore were hard pressed to restrain the debonair Fermogfrendor from executing the insulting human on the spot.  A Ziecenmak looking like a Lnea?  Couldn't the human recognize proper breeding?

*********

        "Pardon me, toots," asked a hairless, fat human with a burning weed between puffy jowls under a large olfactory snout.

        "Arrr!  Away, foul human!" commanded Ensign Ziecenmak stepping between the smoking human and his captain.  "None may cut in front of Captain Neja Lnea without enduring the most serious consequences of being de-molecularized into a pile of space-doggie vomit!"  Even though he had to keep his mighty hand weapon holstered, the brilliant ensign was learning the ways of human society courtesy of an eavesdropped conversation between Mrs. Pinklestein and Mrs. Winnermier.

        "Shove it, pal," sneered the human, blowing a cloud of smoke into the ensign's left face.  "I need a drink of water from the fountain youse creeps are hanging around.  So either get outta the way or I'll call the cops.  Waitaminute, youse the group makin' all the noise earlier?"

        "Arrr.  You're not cutting in line?" Ensign Ziecenmak's right head asked while his left choked on the noxious stinkweed cloud.

        "What the hell for?  I'm on my way outta here.  Now are youse gonna move it or not?"

        "Arrr.  Excuse me.  Sorry."  The five shuffled past the water fountain and continued their way up the line.  A slight twitch started in Ziecenmak's #4 eyestalk.

*********

        "Arrr!  Captain, we're here!  We've arrived at the window!" bellowed a joyous Fermogfrendor.

        The Phipians had arrived at the head of the line to the open window, _again.  A middle-aged human female sat behind the counter, a communicator cocked under her chin and behind an ear.  "And he said that?" she screeched into the black colored device.  "Oh, Sandi.  You're too good for that weasel."_

        "Arrr.  Urm, excuse me," started the courteous Fermogfrendor, trying to tread the human welcome ritual she had overheard just minutes before.

        "Just one minute, bub.  Can't you see that I'm on the phone?  Talk about rude.  Oh, Sandi, sure you can move in with me until you get that deadbeat out of your apartment.  Yes, you can bring your makeup bag.  No, only one bag.  I said no.  Oh, Sandi, you can call me anytime.  I'm only working.  What're old high school friends for?  Give me a call and tell me all about it when you tell that deadbeat you're moving out.  No, only one bag.  Stop it.  Okay, talk to you later."  The human hung up her communications device.

        "Yes?  What is it?" the human asked, arching a small line of facial hair over an in-set eye.  "Can I help you?"

        "Arrr.  Yes, human, you can.  We need a . . ."

        RIIIIIIINNNNGGGGG.

        "Just a minute.  Hello?  Stacy!?  How are things with you?  Oh, no.  No trouble at all.  I was just telling Sandi the same thing – I'm only at work.  Call me anytime.  No!!  She's seeing him again?!  Tell me more!"

        "Arrr.  Human, we need to get a…"  Fermogfrendor's lower left hand caressed her holstered Series XXXVIII Blaster, her trigger finger twitching slightly.

        "Just a minute, sir.  Can't you losers see I'm on the phone?  No, Stacy, no trouble.  "

        "Arrr.  But you see, we only need . . ."

        "She said what?!" the human screeched, rising off her stool to her full height of 1.524 meters, including heels.  "I can't believe it!"

        "Arrr.  Human, we tire of these…"

        "Sir…

        "Arrr, I'm a female of my species."

        "Whatever.  What would your mother say of your constant interruptions?  Hmmm?"  The human then proceeded to ignore them.

        The five Phipians seethed silently for 2/24ths of an Earth rotation until the communications call ended and the worker again rejoined the rest of the world.  Agitated Fermogfrendor's trigger finger twitched stronger, and another finger joined in.

        "Hrrrmph.  The things she said.  Now, how can I help you guys?"

        "Arrr.  Human, we need a permit to land our spaceship in Lawndale Park!  Arrr."  A double "arrr."  This was indeed trouble for the red and prematurely gray head-furred human. 

        "A permit to land in Lawndale Park?" she asked.  "Oh my.  You're in the wrong line.  You need the office down the hall.  Next!"

        Faces downcast, the five left the line, shuffling their three huge, green-furred, inch-long talon, seven-toed feet along the mismatched tiled floor.

*********

        The five Phipians had carefully deciphered the _Permits Here_ sign and were next in line at the window.  Their undauntable spirits were back up as they neared the end of their arduous journey.

        "Soon the permit, and then the riches!  Harr harr harr!" they thought.  Ten beautiful heads all thinking the same beautiful thing.  Oh, they'd make those humans pay.  They'd invent new tortures if they had to.  Why, they could torture the humans by having them wait in long lines like they had to wait in!

        The clumsy human in front of them concluded his business and turned to leave, bumping into courageous Third Officer Wore before continuing on out the building.  The devious human filched officer Wore's wallet, which was stuffed with various intergalactic currency as well as two dozen intergalactic homing speeding tickets whose programmed motto was:  "You better pay me soon or you'll regret it."  The human found this out some time later when his personal vehicle was re-molecularized into two tons of Spam by a vengeful Space Cop Association, Speeding Ticket Division, Pay Now Or Pay Later subdepartment cop-in-training.  However, as the human's vehicle was a rusting AMC Pacer, this action by the Space Cop Association actually increased its resale value.  Or would have had he not been driving it on the freeway at the time at an excessive rate of speed.

        The Phipians crowded close, eager for the permit.  The window was exactly like the last one they had come from, and was manned by a half-bald male human wearing tan trousers and a white button-up shirt with the top button unbuttoned.  His undone red tie complemented his shirt.  A nameplate in front of the window identified the human as one "Please Conclude All Phone Calls Before Reaching This Window."  Obviously this human of many names was the one in charge.

        "Yes, sir," the human said.

        "Arrr.  I am a female of my species!"

        "Whatever.  What can I do for you today?"  The civil servant was actually civil.  The human must have recognized the impressiveness of the five Phipians before him.  

        As well the human should.

        "Arrr.  We need a permit to land our spaceship in Lawndale Park!" said Captain Lnea.

        "Arrr.  Then we're going to ransack your planet of all its riches before we go on to Conquest 220!  Harr harr harr!" went a happy First Officer, her hand still resting on her blaster.

        "Hmmm.  Yes.  I see."  The human consulted a book he drew from under the counter.  He scanned the text for a few minutes, flipping the pages with a snap of his wrist, occasionally nudging eyeglasses up and down his olfactory snout.  Then, "Okay, since there's nothing in the book to rule out aliens from landing in Lawndale Park so they can conquer the world, let's see about getting you that permit, shall we?  Now approximately how big is this ship?"

        "Arrr.  I'd say 6,000 cubic _sklors."_

        "I see.  And about how big is a _sklor?" asked the "civil" civil servant_

        Fermogfrendor used her two massive upper green furred arms to stretch horizontally and the other two arms to stretch vertically.

        "Ah," said the human.  "Two meters.  Approximately 12,000 cubic meters more than likely.  You wouldn't happen to have a picture of it by any chance, would you?"

        Captain Lnea produced the snapshot the lowly cabin boy had taken on CP#218 of the officers in front of the **_PLANET RAVAGER_**.  They had obscene gestures pointed at the camera while the FTGOACHIOPian civilization burned in the distance.  

        Those clowns.

        "Ah.  12,000 cubic meters as you indicated.  Just wanted to make sure so there's no slip up on the calculations."  The human pulled an adding device from under the counter.  "Okay.  Let's see . . . carry the two.  Add three to that number… That would be, give or take, 39,369.6 cubic feet.  Ladies, this may be a problem.  You see, structures above a thousand feet aren't allowed in the park.  Since yours is substantially bigger than that, you'll have to get a Structure Exception."

        "Arrr.  How do we get that?"

        "Well, you'll need to go down this hall over here," began the human in typical governmental drone-tone, "and see a Mr. Bonder…"

*********

        "You say you have how many weapons?" asked an Asian-American (identified from pilfered broadcasts on the flight to the solar system) human woman wearing horn-rimmed glass coverings over her in-set eyes.  She had what seemed to look like black dyed skull fur that came down to her shoulders.  With nimble fingers, she flipped through a governmental manual and asked, "Are they chemical, electrical or nuclear?" 

        "Harr harr harr!  We have scores of each!" announced a boisterous Wore.

        They were happily back on familiar territory and grinned at each other.

        The human muttered, "Oh, the things I could have done with those just a few years ago.  But, no, that was a different life.  Good for nothing school board."  Then, louder to the glorious Captain, "I see.  Well, you'll need individual permits as well as weapons licenses for all persons carrying side-arms.  They'll also need certifiable training.  Are your nuclear weapons fission or fusion?" he asked, looking directly at the Captain but displaying no emotion.

        "Arrr.  Urm, fission."

        Longingly, the human mumbled, "Oh, fission.  That would've shut those little brats up…er."  Again, louder, "Ahem.  I thought so.  Well, you'll need to fill out these energy discharging forms as well as this responsibility form for any stray electromagnetic pulses wiping out or interfering with television reception and/or banking computers.  And if any of your electrical shooters generates over one megawatt of power, you're going to need to fill out this stack of forms."

        Captain Lnea had picked up her first vile human characteristic—some of her hair had turned from a lustrous green to one shade lighter than jet black giving the appearance of dark bags under all her sagging eyestalks.

*********

        "Can I help you… beings?" asked a black-haired human female.

        "Arrr.  We seek visas for our crew to land in your city park," Ensign Ziecenmak replied in the best of hopes to get the request over as soon as possible.

        "Really?  Visas?  I thought the State Department did that."

        "Arrr.  Your department was where another human told us to amble over to," he said truthfully.

        "I can do Visas?  When did that happen?" the black-haired human wondered, looking up something in a notebook.  "Oh, that's right.  I can do emergency Visas.  So, where are you all from?"

        "Arrr.  We're from the stellar system, PHIP," ever-helpful Second Officer Idsan Fifnrig said, all 14 of her eyes going to the human's name tag, "Tonya.  It is a long way from here."

        "Pip?  Maybe it's just me, but you guys don't look very 'pippy'."

        "Arrr.  You speak true, for a human," replied a tiring Second Officer Idsan Fifnrig.

        The human pulled a 10-page form out of a binder, picking up a black pen at the same time.  "I think this is the right form," Tonya started questioningly.  "But I'd better check."

        "Arrr.  By all means, check.  We want to get the correct forms," said the always-approachable Captain Lnea.

        "Section One, Part One, Subsection A, If… said… parties… are… in…" Tonya began in her slow… detached… monotone… voice.

        Roughly 10-minutes later, while the human Tonya was still on the same page, cheeky Third Officer Cytas Wore asked, "Arrr.  Will this take long?"

        "I don't know since I've never had to read any of the forms.  It might take me a bit.  Um, what were you guys wanting again?"

        "Arrr.  Authorization visas to allow my crew to saunter down the ramps in your city park!" shouted a growing more irritable (but still pretty as ever) Captain Lnea.

        "Oh, that's right.  Uh-oh, I lost my place.  I'd better start over again."

        "Arrr.  I'm going to transform the surface of the Earth into a radioactive slag!" growled Captain Lnea to her usually non-flappable senior staff.

        "That won't get your permits processed any faster, mister," Tonya responded matter-of-factly.

        "Arrr.  I'm a female of my species!"

        "Whatever.  Whoops.  Lost my place again.  Better start over at the beginning."

        As a single entity, the staff sat on the nearby benches, nearly crushing them with their combined weight (since the earthling natives did not know how to build proper furniture) to wait out the document review.

*********

        "Wow.  You guys actually got permission to land a 12,000 cubic meter 100-ton ship in Lawndale Park?  I'm impressed," said the familiar _Permits Here human, Please Conclude All Phone Calls Before Reaching This Window._

        "Arrr, Please Conclude All Phone Calls Before Reaching This Window, it was nothing."

        "Call me Joey."

        "Arrr, whatever pumps your rockets, earthling.  We've been flying ships like that since before you were weaned," said Fifnrig, the ship's navigator (when she felt like it, which wasn't as often as she would think – just thank the Plunder Gods for autopilot).

        "No, not the ship.  I'm impressed that you were able to convince my boss into allowing you to land, it being so big and all.  Well, I'm sure you don't want to talk to me all day so on to business.  This civil servant is here to help.  I see you have your forms all filled out."  The human seemed to have excessive underarm moisture on his too-small white button-up shirt.  

        "Arrr!  **In triplicate**!" bellowed the captain with greenish-yellow teeth, whose breath had personally caused the third floor's entire painted hallway to peel.

        "In triplicate.  Wonderful!" the civil servant beamed, scanning the forms, and offering an occasional hmmm or humph.  "Okay, your papers are almost in order.  There are just a few things we have to clear up on the last page.  Now, how many wheels does your ship have?"

        Ensign Ziecenmak said, "Arrr.  At last count, 5,634."

        "Arrr.  Plus a spare," offered handsome Fifnrig.

        "Oh my."

        "Groan," ten heads groaned collectively.

        "I think we may have a problem here."

*********

        The five officers were shoulder deep in forms in the earthling cafeteria, which incidentally served the best charred-black meat on moldy green bread they had ever eaten.  Captain Lnea was in mid-bite when a medium built City Hall employee with a red bow tie, fully buttoned white shirt and red suspenders attached to neatly pressed black pleated pants approached the table.  In the human's clean hands was a stack of papers 13-centimeters thick.  The human's nametag read: Mr. Tino.

        The Phipians looked up from their war on paperwork as the human with curly black head fur cleared his throat.  The gorgeous captain motioned to her third officer and ever-thoughtful Wore used her upper right arm to clear a spot at the table for the human.  The arm shoved all the discarded paper, styrofoam refuse, and unopened relish packets from their lunch off the table and let it land onto the floor in the ritualistic cleaning of the table to appease the floor gods.  The action was also used to give the lowly crew something to do as the ship operated at its best when it was neat and tidy.

        "I heard you **GENTLEMEN**…

        "Arrr!  Females!"

        "**WHATEVER**… were **LOOKING** for a **PERMIT** to land your **SPACESHIP** in Lawndale Park for a **WEEKEND** of **RAVAGING** the **CITY**, if not the **PLANET**."

        Thoughts of glorious, gory conquest swept through the captain's mind.  But suspicion for the human also entered.  Slowly, the captain replied, "Arrr.  You heard true."

        "Well then, **CITY LAW** requires you to **PROVIDE** accessible **DRINKING WATER **areas as well as adequate **WASTE** **DISPOSAL** units.  And no **LATRINES** like my old **D-I** used to make us dig!  These **PAPERS** should cover most of the **FORMS** you will need to assist you in this **ENDEAVOR**.  If you have any questions, my **OFFICE** is on the 5th floor, right wing, room 5900A.  I'm **ALMOST** always there since, as my **COLLEGUES** always **REMIND** me, I have **NO LIFE**!"

        The human began to leave, turned and said, "I hope you **APPRECIATE** the **EFFORT** I'm making as I **SACRIFICED** my lunch hour helping you out **GETTING** these forms ready!  But I **DOUBT** that's the case since you **REMIND** me of the same lazy **STUDENTS** I used to **TEACH**!"  The human left but his presence remained.

        They looked at each other, an alien feeling swelling up inside each of them.  While they had laid waste to hundreds of worlds in search of riches, this was the first time they ever experienced a guilt trip.  Third Officer Wore's first, third and sixth eyestalks twitched several times and stopped.

        Damn those devious humans anyway!

*********

        An office door closed loudly behind the Phipians who were arguing between themselves as they walked down a hallway.  See what a _low_ the accursed Earth civilization had brought to the glorious captain and her crew.

        "Arrr!  I can't believe you used red ink on those forms!"

        First Officer Fermogfrendor looked at his captain sheepishly.  "Arrr.  Well, urm, I thought that blood-red ink might put some fear in their disgustingly pale bodies, which in turn would expedite matters."

        "Arrr.  Okay, I see your point.  But use your brains, Nuniq!  Have they been intimidated by anything we've done yet?!  No!  And do you know why?!"

        "Arrr.  No."

        The captain calmed his demeanor.  "Arrr.  Me neither.  All they seem to do is scoff whenever I bring up our Fired Office Workers department back home.  They keep stating how they're civil service and can't be fired.  What do they mean by that?"

        "Arrr.  I'm sure they could be fired from a 422mm Sonic Water-Accelerated cannon just like any other fired worker," pretty Fermogfrendor said hopefully.

        "Arrr.  These aliens are confusing," admitted Lnea.  "Okay, who's got the black pen and where are the blue pens?!"

*********

        "Arrr!  What do you mean, 'wrong forms'?!"

        "I'm sorry, sir or madam.  New regulations just came into effect last week.  We only just now got the new forms."  Riiiinnnnggg-rriiiiiinnnngg!  "Excuse me.  Hello?  No, Eric, I won't do it.  I told you before that I don't work for you any longer.  Good-bye!"

        "Arrr!  So we have to do everything over again?!"

        "I'm soooo glad that you understand, sir or madam," whined an aging human female over her glasses and gray head fur.  "You can get the new forms from my assistant, Brittany, outside."

        "Arrr.  But she was the one to give us the wrong forms to begin with!" stated Captain Lnea, scourge of 218 previous planets!

        "Arrr.  Let me try some human influence on her, Captain.  I've been watching the natives," suggested crafty Ensign Ziecenmak.

        "Arrr.  Proceed."

        Ensign Ziecenmak sat on the desk corner, causing it to creak ominously and said, "Arrr.  Listen, chicky-baby.  Loosen up the strings a little, dig?  You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.  Then we can do the nasty."

        The human gazed lovingly into three of Ziecenmak's eyes and said low enough so that only he could hear, "If you don't get your keester off my desk in five seconds, I'm calling security who will in turn take you out back and beat you senseless until I tell them to stop."  She then grabbed an eyestalk, gave it a good yank, and pushed the Phipian onto the floor.

        Ensign Ziecenmak was helped up and helped out, all the while beaming.  What a female! he thought, recalling his last date on Phipian Prime.

*********

        "Gee, I don't know if I can accommodate you… aliens," admitted a concerned _Park Scheduling Department _human.  He was younger looking than the other humans they had dealt with as his face was smooth instead of lined.  He had black head and facial fur, and two green eyes—the only good thing about the human.  "Mrs. Fernwilderstein is holding a religious revival meeting this weekend.  She's already bought a ton of Bibles.  Are you sure you wouldn't like to postpone your festivities until late November?  I have all the time in the world open then."

        "Arrr!  No, no!  We want this weekend!" commanded the battle-hardened Captain.

        "Okay, okay.  Keep your panties on.  Let me call and see if it's okay with her."

        The young human dialed a black-coated communicator on his desk.

        "Mrs. Fernwilderstein, this is Michael Thompson from City Hall.  Yes, ma'am.  I'm fine.  Thank you for asking.  And yourself?  Good, good.  Mrs. Fernwilderstein, the reason I'm calling is that I've got some gentlemen…

        "Arrr!  Females!"

        "Whatever.  Some ladies here who would really like to swap weekends with you if that is all right.  Yes, ma'am.  I know you had your heart set on Lawndale Park for the revival.  But they say their need is awfully pressing as well.  Okay.  Hold on."

        He placed a hand over the communicator.  "Ladies, she wants to know why you need it this weekend."

        "Arrr.  We want to ravage your world and steal your riches," admitted likable Lnea.

        "Mrs. Fernwilderstein, they seem to want to attack our world and steal our wealth.  Uh-huh.  No ma'am.  They're not wearing fascist goose-stepping boots.  They have sandals on.  Uh-huh.  Okay, Mrs. Fernwilderstein.  I'll see what I can arrange.  Thank you for your time.  And you have a good day too."  The human hung up the communicator.

        "She says you can have the weekend on the condition you leave survivors to attend her next meeting."

        The command crew huddled for a moment before responding.  "Arrr.  We'll leave 500 humans _mostly_ alive for her meeting," Captain Lnea said smoothly.

        "She mentioned a figure closer to two million."

        "Arrr.  We can probably keep 5,000 humans alive _long enough for her meeting."_

        "Two million."

        "Arrr.  We can deliver 50,000, most of whom will _definitely live to closing ceremonies."_

        "Two million."

        "Arrr.  I can deliver 500,000.  _No more_."

        "I'll take 1,958,612 alive and relatively uninjured.  And no atheists.  Or else no weekend," said the deviously cool human.

        "Arrr.  Deal!"

        "The weekend is yours, then, ladies."

        The Phipians "Harr-harred" in their first conquest!

*********

        The glorious captain and her crew had all the required forms filled out.  

        Everything was finally in order.  

        Fermogfrendor's hand caressed her blaster, her fourth finger pulling an imaginary trigger.

        They were in the _Permits Here_ office, and Call Me Joey hadn't gone home for the weekend.

        It wasn't even closing time yet!

        Third Officer Wore's eyes twitched nervously for several seconds and stopped.  The cycle repeated 42 seconds later as it had for the past 3/24ths Earth rotations.

        Ka-chunk, ka-chunk went the human's hand stamp.  Ka-chink, ka-chink rotated seven ball bearings in Captain Lnea's lower right hand.  Call Me Joey didn't seem to mind the extra noise.

        "Okay, ladies, for one weekend of ravaging the Earth starting at 12:01 a.m. this Saturday in Lawndale Park, to conclude at 11:59:59 Sunday evening, the price comes to $439,672,857.19, tax included.  Payable in advance in United States, planet Earth currency."

        "Arrr.  Is plastic okay?" asked a grinning Captain Lnea.

        "As long as you have the credit limit," replied the human smoothly.

        "Arrr.  Okay, Nuniq, put it on your card.  Urm, I seem to have forgotten mine."

        "Arrr.  Urm, I didn't bring it with me either, captain.  Idsan, put it on your card."

        "Arrr.  Urm, I didn't bring it with me, Fermogfrendor."  He looked to his left.

        "Arrr.  Don't look at me, my wallet was lifted a long time ago," said Third Officer Wore.

        "Arrr.  My card is maxed," said Ensign Ziecenmak.

        "So.  None of you can pay the bill."  The civil servant turned uncivil.  "After all the bother we went to on your behalf.  You can't pay the bill.  Did you check your wallets before coming here?  Of course not.  You just came here to waste our time.  How _nice_ of you.  It's not like we have anything to do here in our offices."  The human calmly rose to his feet.

        "Get out!" shouted the human.  "Don't waste my department's time!  Don't bother coming back!  Your application is herewith forever **_denied_**!  All future applications **_denied_**!"

        "Arrr," muttered Ensign Ziecenmak.  "I've never been so embarrassed in all my life."

        The captain initiated a brilliant comeback to the foul tempered human and said, "Arrr.  C'mon everyone, let's go.  We don't need to ransack this planet _anyway."  The captain's mind was still razor sharp._

        And with that, the glorious Captain Neja Lnea and her four officers sauntered out of the office.  

*********

**Epilogue:**

        The Phipian command crew sauntered their way out of City Hall.  The captain's eyestalks moved continuously, scanning the halls for any form of an attack.  It was a trait that had given her the upper edge more than once.

        "Arrr, Captain, don't worry about it.  The next conquest will go easier," said Ensign Ziecenmak, trying to get his captain's mood back on the track of gory glory conquest as they approached the massive brass and glass City Hall exit doors.  Human eyes watched their departure with little interest, instead trying desperately to think of a way to move to the front of the line and out of the un-air conditioned building.

        The command crew sauntered their way back to their ship, up the ramp and closed the doors.  In a few minutes the ship launched, scorching the park into little more than black dirt.  A giant strawberry sculpture slagged under the propulsion blast.

        Officers Morgendorffer and Lane watched as the ship launched and left the planet.  Once it was gone they resumed their beat.  As she was leaving the park, Officer Lane noticed something on the ground and picked it up.

        "What'cha find?" asked Officer Morgendorffer.

        "Looks like a pen one of those bozos dropped."

        "Litterbugs."

        "Don't you know it.  I think it says, 'Kool Radioactive Pen.  Use a Kool for writing at night.'"

        "Youse gonna keep it?"

        "Hate to see a good pen go to waste.  Might come in handy, writin' at night."

        "Famous last words.  Besides, since when da youse write?"

        "It could happen."

        "When pigs fly, maybe.  You sure you want to keep something that's radioactive?"

        "Oh, I'm sure it's just a marketing ploy.  I can't think of the harm."

**-End-**

Location: Lawndale HS, History 363.  
Time: Now.

Diane:                                     We weren't sure if we'd actually find any post-review comments, but we got lucky.

Bob:                                        There's not much, but here's what we found.  Nick?

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

**Start Video**

April 2002.  
Location: Lawndale High cafeteria.  Time: noon.  
Daria is sitting at a table.  She is trying to figure out what the mystery meat is without touching it.  Jane walks up to the table and then plants herself on the bench across from Daria.

Jane:                                       Found you at last.

Daria:                                      I didn't think I was hiding.

Jane:                                       Didn't say you were.  Okay.  Done.

Daria:                                      About time you got out of the bathroom.

Jane:                                       You keep that up and I'm not going to give you feedback.

Daria:                                      So you like the story?

Jane:                                       Of course I do.  Anagrams aside, I'm portrayed as a calculating, evil person, out to kill everyone.  You really caught the essence of me.  There's only one thing, though.

Daria:                                      What?

Jane:                                       It's…

Daria:                                      What, what?

Jane:                                       Keep your skirt on, Daria.  I'm getting to it.

Daria:                                      One more "it's" and I'll bust you in the chops.

Jane:                                       I'll take my chances.  The story was way too short.  I'm just starting to get good and involved and next thing you know, bam!  Game over.  What gives?

Daria:                                      Yeah, I kind of thought that myself.

Jane:                                       So, you gonna fix it?

Daria:                                      Nah.  This was just an excerpt of a much longer novel I'm working on.  Once I had your character down, the words just came rolling out.

Jane:                                       I'm a muse in my own time.  Congratulations, me.

Jane pats herself on the back.

Daria:                                      So the story was okay?

Jane:                                       Sure.  I especially liked that I was in the story three times – alien high schooler, alien captain, and beat cop.

Daria:                                      Count yourself lucky.  The original draft I started with had you in the story eight times.

Jane:                                       Even I think that's too many Janes in the world.

Daria:                                      You're not the only one.

Jane:                                       One thing about the story though.  Why are you making all the characters sound like pirates?  And pirates with a limited vocabulary at that.

Daria:                                      What?

Jane:                                       "Aaarr" and "Shiver me timbers" aren't that far apart, you know.  What's the basis for the "Aaarr?"

Just then Quinn walks up with Joey and Jeffy trailing behind her.  Jamie is walking further behind all of them, not in any hurry.

Joey:                                       You need me to get you anything to drink, Quinn?

Jeffy:                                      I can get you the ice!

Jamie:                                     I can't believe I let you two knuckleheads talk me into having lunch with you.

Quinn:                                    Guys… guys!  I need to get my homework done, so I need some privacy.

Jeffy:                                      I'll keep Joey away from you, Quinn.  Then we can have all the privacy the two of us need.

Joey:                                       I'll keep Jeffy away from you, Quinn.  Then **we** can have all the privacy the two of us need.

Quinn:                                    Aaarrgh!

Jane:                                       Never mind.  I can see where you got it.  Now explain the title.

Daria:                                      Inside joke.  I figured since everyone considered me a "misery chick" and thought I wrote nothing but dark, depressing stories, that I'd give them what they expect as a title, but not what they expect as a story.

Jane:                                       You're suckering them in?

Daria:                                      Bingo.

Jane:                                       You know, I can see that.

**End Video**

**Location: History 363.**

**Time: Now.**

Nick:                                       Discussion.  What conclusions can you draw from this story?  Diane?  Bob?  Who is Daria Morgendorffer?

Bob:                                        She considered herself a writer, and Diane and I wanted to know if that is what she became.  The story was entertaining so that's where I started.  For some reason it sounded a little familiar.

Diane:                                     Thanks to Bob's immensely unusual **and** old entertainment library, roughly 30,000 gig worth, we scanned all features and straight to rental releases of the past 47 years.  Surprise, surprise, we actually found a movie called, "Ground Zero High."

Bob:                                        The basic plot was not this story.  However, it did entail a 5-minute segment at the beginning of a short comedy that was basically this story.  The rest of the movie then dealt with eight Janes trying to kill off hundreds of cloned Kevins, Brittanys, O'Neills, and so on before stupidity ran rampant over the Earth.

Diane:                                     Not a bad movie, but the most interesting part I thought was that it was written by Mick Simons and not Daria Morgendorffer.

Kara:                                       She plagiarized it?

Bob:                                        No.  Technically, it **was** written by Mick Simons, who was this weird looking dude contracted exclusively to 21st Century Fox during his career, but it was based off a series of books written by Melody Powers.

Diane:                                     Which we were able to track down as the pseudonym for Daria Morgendorffer.

Larissa:                                  Sounds like you went to a lot of trouble to locate her.  Couldn't you have simply run a query off the internet?

Bob:                                        We did a quick internet check on Daria Morgendorffer at the beginning and found that she was an accomplished writer.  But her initial career listed her as starting as a reporter for a college paper which she then made into a full time job as a local reporter for a paper in New York City.  She stayed with that for about eight years.  She tried her hand on a morning talk show and had some good ratings but eventually the station's new owners wanted to go in a different direction.

Diane:                                     So she went back to reporting, this time as a national reporter who occasional did international gigs.  She covered a lot of the VLS outbreaks.

Bob:                                        She also wrote some children's books and served as a consulting editor for a publishing house that only made school textbooks.

Diane:                                     Her career could have been considered good at that point however she then branched out into poetry.

Bob:                                        Any way you look at it, the image she gave was of a solid, well-balanced person.  However, when we found that she wrote under a different name, things were a lot different.

Diane:                                     Her Melody Powers wrote dark, SF stories dealing with guns, bombs, and everything else under the sun.  It was exciting and fast paced.  It kept my attention.

Bob:                                        But more importantly, it paid well.  She didn't win any awards with this fiction, but it sold a lot of books and her Demolisher series is still being written.  It's up to 130 novels so far and as far as I can tell, her publishing house is having it ghost written for her now.  So all she has to do is sit back and collect the royalties.

Colin:                                      Now that's what I'd like to do.  Have people work and collect the royalties off their labors.

Nicole:                                    Cough-**loser**-cough!

Mrs. Whitmore:                    People, settle down.  So what else can you tell us about Daria?

Bob:                                        She now lives with a granddaughter in Portland, OR.  Her husband, Albert Feinstein, died 11 years previous.  They had been married for nearly 35 years, having met at college.  She has three grown children, all sons.  She has 13 grandchildren, the oldest living with her as her health hasn't been the best in recent years.

Diane:                                     We were able to track her down for this project.  We had to leave multiple video messages explaining we weren't autograph hounds out for a buck and that we were looking to do a school project.  She eventually relented and we had a conference call.

Bob:                                        As soon as she found out we were sincere about doing a school project, she was happy to help.  We got more information on her bio than what we found trolling the internet and network websites.  We could tell she wasn't comfortable talking about former principal Li though.

Diane:                                     That's for sure.  When we asked her about her dealing with Li, she said, quote: "Talk about Ms. Li?  I'd just as soon as go to Attica than speak about her."

Jon:                                         She'd rather go to a historic adventure park?  I don't get it.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Bob?  Care to enlighten Jon here?

Bob:                                        Attica was a prison long before it became an adventure park, Jon.  Don't you remember anything?

Nick:                                       So what did anyone else think about the story she wrote?

Anne:                                     I was kind of disappointed that it was short, like Jane Lane said.  It just started going and then it ended.  I was hoping for more depth.  Or at least more jokes.

Mike:                                      I liked the intro Bob and Diane set up.  I enjoyed watching the thought process going into the story.  That was interesting.

Aaron:                                    I don't get the Duck season or Rabbit season references. 

Jane:                                       You don't watch many cartoons, do you?

Aaron:                                    Should I?

Bob:                                        Don't even bother, Jane.

Elizabeth:                               So what did she leave behind as her contribution to the time capsule?

Diane:                                     A packet of decayed sea monkeys.  And a sucker.  Partially licked.

Nick:                                       What do you make of it?

Bob:                                        Personally, I thought it showed character.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    How so?

Bob:                                        Of all the footage I've seen of her on the Li cams, she is never smiling.  She always has a serious or deadpan expression.  I never saw her laugh or display much emotion.  Yet her story showed a hidden depth she seemed to refuse to show on camera.  It showed humor.  And leaving behind a partially licked sucker I think was her subtle way of telling the world that she wouldn't be anyone's sucker.

Rose:                                      And the sea monkeys?  Where do they fit in?

Bob:                                        I have no idea.

Nick:                                       Diane?

Diane:                                     No clue.  It's like she reached for the most convenient thing possible.  It's not like she thought they'd become a mutant sea monkey army in the future or anything.

Nick:                                       Anything else interesting to note?

Diane:                                     I did a search on news articles thinking to see what she reported on and found her name listed **in** an article about 12 years ago instead of on the regular author line.  Seems as if she was being considered for the post of Poet Laureate of the country.  When that story's reporter asked her what she thought that, she asked him how much the job paid.  His answer was that it paid nothing as it was an honorary position.  Her response was: "cheap bastards".

Nick:                                       Great job, you two.  Well researched.  Okay, next week is the last story.  Anne and I are presenting it.  I think you'll find it somewhat interesting.  So please, be on time. 

**_NEXT:                                   Quinn's story: My Future_**

****

Contact me:

Jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2003 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen). 

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed. Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you. A coincidence! To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real. Or could it? I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.


	16. Quinn's Story My Future

Rating: PG-13 

Special **THANKS** goes out to Mike Yamiolkoski and Thomas Mikkelsen for their patience and assistance in beta reading this story!

**April 2002.  
Location: Lawndale High classroom.  Time: morning.  
**Quinn enters the room and approaches Mr. O'Neill prior to the start of class.

Quinn:                Hi, Mr. O'Neill.  I wanted to give you my assignment.

Mr. O'Neill:                Thanks, um, Lawndale High student.  I'm sure I'll be able to get right on grading it.

Quinn:                It's for the time capsule, remember?

Mr. O'Neill:                Oh… oh, yes!  Now I remember.  Wasn't that supposed to be turned in several months ago?

Quinn:                Not according to what I read on Ms. Li's bulletin. I had until the end of the school year.

Mr. O'Neill:                Well, thanks.

Quinn leaves, a happy expression on her face.

**April 2002. A week later.  
Location: Lawndale High hallway.  Time: morning.  
**Daria walks up to Quinn at her locker.  Surprisingly, no one else is nearby.

Daria:                Here.  You need to sign this.

Quinn:                Forget it.  I'm not signing anything without having mom read it first.  I'm not getting caught like last time.

Daria:                Funny, Quinn.  It's your assignment for the time capsule.

Quinn:                (nervous) You… you didn't read it, did you?

Daria:                What? Me read your work?  For no pay?

Quinn:                Whew, that's a relief. Hey, how did this get typed?

Daria:                Mr. O'Neill had me do it. Fortunately, all I had to do was type it and not read it.

Quinn:                Whew, that's a relief. 

Daria:                I couldn't believe you put that bit in about not having freckles when we both know…

Quinn:                You did read it!

Daria:                Hello?!  I had to type it.  You think it was easy for me?

Quinn:                Oh, I can't believe you read it.  My life's over!

Daria:                Actually, I think it's only beginning.

Quinn:                Sniff What?

Daria:                It's a good story, Quinn.

Quinn:                You think so?

Daria:                I know so.  Did you feel good writing it?

Quinn:                You know, I did.  It helped me put some things in perspective.  Thanks, Daria.  You didn't, you know…

Daria:                What?  Put conditioner in my hair?  Try out for the cheerleading squad? 

Quinn:                You know.  Show this to anyone?

Daria:                Quinn, you have my solemn oath that I did not show this to anyone.

Quinn:                Whew.  That's a relief.

Jane:                Hey, campers, what's shaking?  Oh, that would be some facial…

Quinn:                She's read it?!

Daria:                Quinn, I'd like to point out that technically, Jane isn't an "anyone," she's a "someone."

Jane:                I prefer "Anonymous Contributor" myself.

Daria:                What are you talking about?

Jane:                Does it matter?

Daria:                Not really.

Quinn:                Oh, the humanity!

My Future – a.k.a. Pretty Things 

**By Quinn Morgendorffer**

Once upon a time there was a really cute redhead.  She lived in a world… a world…  a world.

Crap.  This isn't going where I thought it would.  It hasn't gone anywhere yet.  I might've been able to write it a year ago or even last spring.  But, not now.

Fine.  I have to create a story.  Here's a story.

Once upon a time there lived a cute girl with natural red hair.  Not color-in-a-bottle like **some** people hinted, but someone with natural red hair.  Sometimes highlighted, but the entire picture wasn't from a bottle.  She lived in a mundane town filled with other mundane people who seemed more interested in football or dates or fashion than they should have been.  These were the popular people in town who immediately knew that the redhead was one of them and invited her to join.

She did. 

Over time she learned a thing or two: when it was okay to take a quick snooze during a date (always during an action movie the guy wanted to go to), what moisturizer went with what fabric, what math principles were best used when figuring the tip at dinner, who was a friend vs. who was an acquaintance, and what bottles of highlight colors to avoid.  There were a few other things she figured out while attending her high school but some of those swear words were just too coarse to list in this story.

Unless the redheaded girl thought about Ms. Li, the high school principal.  But this isn't that kind of story.  True, the redhead never had any particular animosity toward Ms. Li, but that wasn't to say friction did not exist, especially when she was forced into writing assignments and she didn't have any good dirt on her sister to coerce her into doing it for her.

The redheaded girl grew up seemingly overnight.  One day she was concerned about who would take her out Friday night, how she could coordinate multiple dates if it came to it, and even what to wear.  The next day she blinked and saw reality for what it was.

She was in mundane-ville.  And it was **boring**.  She saw the future and it scared her.  Did she want to end up like the cheerleaders at school who graduated from the 12th grade and into motherhood at about the same time, missing out on whatever else there was in the world?  Was she prepared to end up working the counter at a clothing store just so she could get discounts for clothes she would only wear once – and have to kowtow to a new breed of fashion-elect?  Or did she even want to face a life of answering phones for a company she'd rather be in charge of just because she didn't go to college?

She didn't think so.

She looked around some more.  All the signs were there.  The previous senior class graduated 210 students.  Only a third of them went on to college.  Of that, 41 were back before the winter break as either being expelled (for excessive partying) or just being too ill-prepared to leave home.  She recognized people she went to school with now working as grease monkeys at Grease Monkey, or slurpee jocks at 7-Eleven's, but the worst she noticed was Paul.  A local of Lawndale all his life, he seemed on the fast track.  He drove nice cars, came from a nice upper-middle class family and caught her eye the year before.  They had gone out on a date to Chez Pierre, a ritzy French restaurant where they seemed to know his name and gave him the red carpet treatment.  Now he was working at the restaurant, and was even working his fake French accent to get people to go with the chef's specials that was bought out the back of a truck in the middle of the night vs. something a whole lot better and tastier.

It all made her think.

Not the kind of thinking that hurt the head, but the kind to actually see the world for what it was.

What did she want out of life?

Who did she want with her for the rest of her life?

What would truly make her happy?  

Was anything she was currently involved in really important in the long run?    
(Excluding certain compacts of freckle-covering mascara, of course.)

Did she really want high school to be the high point of her existence?

Surprisingly to herself and to most people, her sister included, she came up with an answer.

And so the story of the cute redhead girl ended.

And the story of the cute redheaded woman began.

The woman's story is being written as we speak.  What I'm going to do and where I'm going from here are my own thoughts.  My own desires.  My own hopes.  Maybe you'll hear of me.  Maybe you won't.

But I'm content with my decision.  It's time to go.

**The end**

**TIME: Now**

LOCATION: Lawndale High, History 363 

Nick:                Anne did the work on the story.  I did the research on the author.  Anne, what do you think of the story?

Anne:                Well… it's kind of hard to say.

Kara:                In what way?

Anne:                I've listened to and read all the stories in the time capsule.  There are some really good ones and some that are mediocre.  But the thing is, they were all stories – even Jodie's was a story after a fashion once I recognized it for what it was.  Quinn's work was supposed to be a story.  Only it wasn't.  I had the impression that this was more of a page from a diary than a story.

Nick:                Did you like it though?

Anne:                Truthfully, I wish it had more tofu, more sustenance.  But I'm kind of glad it didn't with all the work I did this semester helping everyone else with their stories.

Nick:                Discussion anyone?  Bob, what about you?

Bob:                I have to agree.  This isn't a story.

Nick:                But did you like it?

Bob:                Sure.  Short and to the point.  It means we're getting out of class early today.

Class laughter.

Nick:                Maybe.  And I have to say, Anne that I agree with you.  This isn't really a story.

Kara:                But it was still enjoyable.

Nick:                I never said it wasn't.  But why do you like it, Kara?

Kara:                This story discussed a pivotal point in the author's life.  A key factor of when she quit being a girl and started thinking like a woman.

Rose:                I agree.

Nick:                Anyone else?  Diana?

Diana:                So it was a key point in her life.  Big deal.  I thought the assignment was to write a story for the time capsule.

Nick:                Didn't she?

Diana:                You tell me.  All I got out of this was a collection of rambling thoughts used in a cohesive pattern.

Ben:                I got a story out of it.  It helped knowing what the other stories in the capsule were as they shed some background information on the authors but reading between the lines, I did see a story of a girl who tried to fit in, was successful, and then gave it up as fitting in wasn't the right thing to do.

Bridget:                Right thing to do for everyone or for her?

Austin:                For her.  I saw what Ben was talking about.

Colin:                Skipping this rousing in-depth expose of a one-page story which is certainly keeping me awake, what about you, Nick?

Nick:                Restate the question, Colin.  You're too vague.

Colin:                Where is Quinn Morgendorffer now?

Nick:                Truth be told, I had no idea where she was.  For someone who was so obviously eager for attention in high school, she sure didn't seek it out as an adult.  So I set up some search programs at the beginning of the semester and found that she went into the AmeriCorps after graduating in 2003 and went to work in northern California.  Strangely enough, some whacked-out governor decided the best way to raise capital for California was to lease out cheap workers worldwide, and within two years she was drafted into the Peace Corps and sent to Africa.  Soon after that it was as if she dropped off the face of the planet.

Colin:                So you didn't find her.

Nick:                I didn't say that.  As I've tried to point out with several of you in one-on-one discussions, when you can't find your assignment, follow the money.  My dad used to say that and it's still a good philosophy to follow.  I did this.  I figured if she were dead, there would be some sort of marker.  But I didn't find any listing of one – nor could I locate any sort of payoff by the Peace Corps if she'd met a terrible end.

Colin:                So?

Nick:                So she was listed as receiving a stipend from them until 2009.  She had gone to Somolia, Africa.  That was easy enough to find out.  Using the Somolian embassy's webpage, I requested additional searches on her.  I found her listed only once in a newspaper article.  Apparently she was in the hospital from having been injured by a land mine.  The article indicated that she was expected to make to make a full recovery.  This was in 2009, about a month before the final payment from the Peace Corps was made into her account.

Colin:                So you hit another dead end?

Anne:                Jeez, Colin, you want to tell this or let Nick do it?

Nick:                She didn't die.  That was a given.  I managed to locate an old record in an airline database of her departure from Somolia with a destination of NYC.  Figuring she was still injured I researched hospital records and found her listed at a rehab location for outpatient physical therapy.  She was there for about three months before Quinn Morgendorffer disappeared for good.

A few seconds of quiet as everyone looks at Colin.

Colin:                What?  I didn't interrupt.

Nick:                Just giving you an opportunity.  Anyway, all of a sudden Quinn Morgendorffer went away.  Yet upon further inspection I noticed that the hospital records indicated 15 patients under physical therapy but when Quinn vanished, that number was left unchanged for another few months.  I just had a gut feeling she was still there so I ran a pirate query against their records and found a new name added in on the same day Quinn left.  It was a woman matching the same physical ailments Quinn had.  I got lucky and found a graphic of her, downloaded it – and it was the same person.  Quinn had changed her name to Laura Loudtown.  Laura was her middle name.

Rose:                Why'd she change her name?

Nick:                Best guess was to stem the onslaught of mail she was getting.  Apparently the local news ran a series of stories on her during a slow month and the center started getting deluged with mail, spam, and marriage offers.  I'm thinking she changed it just to avoid the media attention while completing her rehab.

Bob:                Okay, if Colin's not going to say it, I will.  You've got to be kidding me.  Loudtown?

Nick:                That's what's in the records.

Amy:                Why Loudtown?

Nick:                I think it was a jab towards her mother's maiden name of Barksdale.  Anyhoo, I found references to her new name again over the next few years as she went to a college and in her senior year she disappeared again.  This time I couldn't get through their security parameters and was unable to follow-up on her through GW's alumni association.  So I tried a new avenue.  Figuring she wasn't on the run from the law or anything, I checked the SSI website.  Sure enough, when she changed her name initially, she got some updated Social Security identification.  On a hunch, I went through the Freedom of Information site and requested info on that ID number and found that she was still listed as a student during her entire senior year at GW and when she had changed her name again, this time kept her new ID number unchanged.  This was typical as the reason she changed her name was that she got married.

Bob:                Please don't tell me her new name is Laura Hollaralot.

Colin:                Or Laura Screamville.

Bob:                Or Laura Shoutburg.

Colin:                Or Laura Whisperglenn.

Nick:                I'm sure I won't have to, fellas.  You see, she graduated with her BA and went on to a grad school where she received her masters.  Then about 32-years ago she moved back to Lawndale with her husband and two kids.  They bought a house and she got a job.  Her current name is… Mrs. Laura Whitmore.

A loud gasp from the class as they all look at Mrs. Whitmore.

Colin:                I'm going to flunk for sure.  I know it.

Bob:                This is all **your** fault, Colin.  You and your jokes about her name.

Mrs. Whitmore:                Boys, boys.  Don't accuse each other but we do need to have a financial discussion.  As for you, Nicolas.  Smiles  How did you know?

Nick:                You dropped clues now and then.  But the biggest indication was when you talked about Jamie White.

Mrs. Whitmore:                How so?

Nick:                You knew the details surrounding his death.  True, there was a newspaper article about him locally that could have accounted for the details.  Yet he died 47-years ago.  And you didn't move to Lawndale until 32-years ago.  That's a 15-year gap in local knowledge.  But you knew the details.  I started asking myself how could you have known that.

Mrs. Whitmore:                It made national news.

Nick:                Partially.  I checked.  The circumstances surrounding his death did but his involvement was a passing sentence.  And you still knew the details.  You knew he had a wife and a daughter.

Mrs. Whitmore:                Again, that was national news.

Nick:                True.  But you knew that Slashin' White was his daughter.

Mrs. Whitmore:                We work at the same place, you know.  We do talk to one another.

Nick:                I'd thought of that.  But you still dropped subtle clues to other authors.  That's when it all clicked in my mind and I thought to do a search on you.  Call it a gut feeling.

Mrs. Whitmore:                Well done.  I think you and your gut get an "A".  

Aaron:                But what did she leave in the time capsule?

Naomi:                C'mon, Nick, don't hold out on us now.  What is it?

Nick:                Anne?  Why don't you tell them what it is.

Anne:                It's a Rand McNally 1998 Road Map.

Bridget:                That's it?  I don't get it.  Why a road map?

Anne:                That's what I thought.  I went through it page by page and only found one area marked.  It's near town.  Some park.  And on the page someone wrote …uh… okay, here it is… "Mmmmmm.  Glitter berries".

Nick:                What does that mean?

Anne:                I have no idea.

Nick:                Mrs. Whitmore?  Care to shed some light on this?

Mrs. Whitmore:                No comment.

Bob:                Glitter berries… I've heard that somewhere before.  Weren't they a hallucino…

Mrs. Whitmore:                My, look at the time.  Okay, class, we'll go over grade bids next week.  Bob, Colin, go home before I change my mind.  Nick, I need to see you after class.  Dismissed.

The students all leave, except Nick.  In moments, they are gone and the door shuts.  Mrs. Whitmore and Nick go to her office in the adjoining room.

Mrs. Whitmore:                I wanted to ask you a question in private, Nicholas.

Nick:                Shoot.

Mrs. Whitmore:                What was your impression of all the stories?  About this entire project?

Nick:                Am I being graded on my answer?

Mrs. Whitmore:                Now what makes you ask that?

Nick:                Because I've known you for years. 

Mrs. Whitmore:                (Smiles) No, you're not being graded.  

Nick:                Then I'll skip the political answer and tell you how I feel.  I actually enjoyed everything we saw and read.  It really made me a believer in the cyclical theory – where everything old is new again.  The problems you faced in school are the same we have now.  
  
But there was one thing that struck me the most.  It was when I reviewed the detail on each author. I went through the yearbook in addition to the Li archives.  I had to go through several more yearbooks to get what I was looking for.  I was looking for captions regarding all the authors.  I read the normal passages – who was most likely to succeed, most likely to do this, do that, etc. and I was amazed at how everyone turned out based on people's projections.  
  
Granted, Kevin's was "Most likely to end up as a traumatized science experiment," but most of the others were listed as doing great and wonderful things – but not in the areas they eventually went.  Everyone was successful… in their own fashion.  Basically, high school helped shape their lives, but didn't define everyone's lives.  Yourself included.  And I found that interesting.

Mrs. Whitmore:                Daria? What do you think?

Daria's face shows on a now-unmasked plasma PC/blackboard screen along with a cascade of other former classmates laid out in a grid fashion.  They are having their own reunion. 

Daria:                He shows promise, sis.

Jane:                You're right, Daria.  He's a cutie.

Daria:                I didn't say anything about him being a cutie.

Jane:                So?  When's that stopped me from putting words in your mouth before?

Mrs. Whitmore:                That's enough, you two or I'm going to reverse charge this call to your accounts.

Jane:                Got it.

Nick:                I take it they've been watching our classroom discussions?

Mrs. Whitmore:                They've only been live as of today.  All other discussions were zipped and zapped to their accounts last week for review.

Sandi:                We only reached consensus yesterday when and how to meet. 

Nick:                Then why didn't we have a discussion during class?

Mrs. Whitmore:                We will.  What else did you expect me to pull during finals week?

Joey:                Anybody want to buy some insurance?

Jeffy:                Shut up!

Nick:                Why do I have a bad feeling about finals week?

Jodie:                You mean you usually have good feelings about taking finals?

Trent:                That's sick, dude.

Mrs. Whitmore:                So, Nick, what do you think we should do during our final exam?

Nick:                You know, I was thinking about this the other week.  What would we do?  Take a test over all the material we reviewed?  I don't think so.  Instead, I think we ought to have a pizza party and hand out A's to everyone who comes.

Mrs. Whitmore:                (pause) Who bribed you?

Nick:                A few people in the class, but Bob was the point man.  However, I only took it if he included two riders.

Mrs. Whitmore:                Which are?

Nick:                One: it's non-refundable in case you didn't go along with it.  And two, that he had to pay for the pizza's if you did.

Mrs. Whitmore:                For the entire class?

Nick:                Actually, I worded the contract so it reflected the entire school.

Daria:                He's evil.  Just plain evil.

Jane:                I like him.  He's a keeper, Quinn!

Mrs. Whitmore:                It's "Laura," Jane.  You know that.

Charles:                I vote you give Nicholas an "A" without any finals to worry about.  You want me to hack your system and do it?

Stacy:                I could always give a royal proclamation so the State Department would force LHS into giving him an "A".

Sandi:                I'm sure I could get a grassroots effort going to do the same thing.

Joey:                So, does anybody now want to buy some insurance?

Jeffy:                Shut up!

Mrs. Whitmore:                I'm sure that won't be necessary.  I'm sure he'll be getting his "A" along with everyone else who shows up to school that day and partakes in free pizza.

Nick:                You're going to take Bob up on his bribe?

Mrs. Whitmore:                Sure.  It's not everyday I can make a pizza shop's month by ordering 2,000 pizzas.

Nick:                But, the entire student body is only 2,000 people big.

Mrs. Whitmore:                No sense everyone can't have their own pizza is there?

Jane:                She's evil.  Just plain evil.

Daria:                That's my sister!

**_NEXT:                Author's End Notes 08D0C9EA79F9BACE118C8200AA004BA90B02000000080000000D0000005F00520065006600340036003300300038003000310038000000 ! See below!_**

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2003 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).  

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright. 

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed.  Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you.  A coincidence!   To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real.  Or could it?  I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.

Okay, okay, I admit it!  It's not a coincidence I tell you!  It's not!  I can't keep the deception up anymore!  The pressure of using real names is getting to me.  Even if I had to make some of those names up!

Author's End Notes 

This is the last of this series. I had originally thought of bringing all the surviving Daria characters together for a longer talk to the class as a finale, but couldn't get past the thought of Jeffy and Joey still hitting on an aged Quinn. So, enough was enough. It's time to move on to other things.

The genesis of this entire series actually began with a conversation I had with Nemo Blank. I enjoyed reading his story, "**Blast From The Past," and had contacted him. We corresponded and eventually he sent me a few plotlines he'd developed but hadn't done anything with (and wasn't going to do anything with them either). He wondered what would happen if someone else got them – where would that person take them? Well, this entire series is the answer to that. The original "Time Capsule" was actually one of those plotlines, which I grabbed only a small portion of as I wanted a vehicle for the rest of the stories I was thinking of and that's how the series came about. As is, Trent's story, "**The Snatch!**" was based almost exclusively on one of Nemo's plots. I did want to mention the one big reason I liked Nemo's "**Blast From The Past**" story was that if you changed the names of all the characters and stuck it in a different location, the story is still just as powerful in its own right.**

I am very glad that Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo agreed to be my beta readers at the outset. They helped substantially! And when Mike Yamiolkoski beta read the last few stories, he improved them immensely!

If you have never read any of Thomas' work, you should for he has an uncanny ability to tell a story almost entirely by dialog. He does not rely on massive descriptions to carry the story. It's not an easy thing to do, and he does it exceptionally well. And the fact he writes comedy is a plus in my book anytime.

And if you have not read any of Mike's work, then you are really missing out on some great stories. Mike has a great ability to tell you a story that brings you into it from the beginning. It is a consistent trait of his and not many people can do that either. Mike is a detailed storyteller and takes care to research what he writes.

Some of the goals I set for myself were to write each story in a different character's voice. I feel I really accomplished that with most of the stories. Not all, but most.

The summer of 2002 was somewhat difficult for me health wise, and as a consequence the writing slowed down significantly. Long story short: Chemo – been there, done that. Recovery – going slow. Outlook – **DAMN GOOD!**

As expected, I did use real authors names in the creation of these future reviews. Here's how I broke it down (in case you are looking to see if your name is included or not):

The Time Capsule Author List

**Reviewers:**

**Actual Author Association:**

**Story reviewed:**

Nick

This is a composite of authors I like, notably:   
**N**apalm Krigbaum,   
M**i**ke Yamiolkoski,   
Eri**c** Noss, and   
Jon **K**ilner. 

Quinn

Anne

Mr. Anonymous

Quinn

Larissa

Larissa Simpson of L&B

Upchuck

Barry 

Barry Soloman

Upchuck

Thomas

Thomas Mikkelsen

Trent

Diana

Rajchel aka Medea42

Trent

Ben

Ben Yee

Jamie

Nicole

Nicole Young

Jamie

John

John Takis

Joey

Elizabeth

Elizabeth Thaler

Joey

Geoff

Geoff Roberts

Jeffy

Debbie

SDDB

Jeffy

Yui

Yui Daoren

Mack

Rose

Arctic Rose

Mack

Kara

Kara Wild

Jodie

Dan

Dan Suni

Jodie

Mike

Mike Quinn

Brittany

Naomi

Naomi Mattera/ Erin/ Shallow15

Brittany

Aaron

Aaron Soloman

Kevin

Jane

Weirdgirl

Kevin

Bridget

Bridget Simpson of L&B

Tiffany

Colin

Colin Finan

Tiffany

Amy

Kemical Reaxion

Stacy

Austin

Austin Covello

Stacy

Jon

John Berry

Sandi

Rich

Paperpusher

Sandi

Bob

Crazy Nutso

Daria

Diane

Diane Long

Daria

Jim

Nemo Blank

Jane

Steven

Wildgoose

Jane

Not all stories I read of the nearly 2000 I found I liked for the same reason. Some I liked because they were very funny. Some were well written. Some made me think about the subject matter. But one thing was certain: they were all good.

I first started reading stories on Crazy Nutso's website (which has since been removed). This led to finding other websites. If you get a chance, check them out. These websites include Kemical Reaxion's () and Martin Pollard's site (www.outpost-daria.com) which has hundreds and hundreds of stories.

As some of you have no doubt figured out, I referenced stories previously written by the above authors in Daria's story. The following are the stories I liked by the author, which I wanted to mention one more time:

Aaron Soloman

Daria in Oz. After ten years of exile in Oz, Daria and Quinn find themselves in a suspicious recreation of the MGM musical.

Arctic Rose

Of Relationships & Realizations. Years in the future, Daria & Trent's marriage is having problems, when she runs into an old friend...

Austin Covello

Fifteen Minutes of Frame. Jane gets her own exhibition room at a museum, but on one condition: She has to speak in public! Ms. Defoe turns it into a field trip. Meanwhile, Daria finds out that Beavis and Butt-Head are using a likeness of her on their new TV show. Can she sue?

Barry Soloman

The Way Things Ought To Be. Daria discovers just how true the phrase "be careful what you wish for" is when she suddenly finds herself back in Highland... and having traded places with Quinn! (Beavis and Butt-Head/The Twilight Zone/Daria) – or use Death Of A Rabbit (Upchuck overhears something and thinks pregnancy??)

Ben Yee

Visions. Daria learns the price of love. Short tear-jerker. Daria gets a vision of the future.

Bridget Simpson of L&B

Upchuck's Last Stand. The school is hit by a 'tragic' loss...

Colin Finan

UnCONventional. LawnCON only comes around once a year. For Daria and crew, that is one time too many.

Crazy Nutso

The Magical Mystik Spiral Tour. Mystik Spiral is about to embark on a world tour! It's a story too big for 1 fanfic, but it has to start somewhere. And that's here! What would happen if Mystik Spiral went on tour... along with many of your favorites from Lawndale High? Find out!

Dan Suni

A Lousy Deal. The nurse at Lawndale High discovers a few cases of head lice, and thanks to Ms. Li, Daria and Jane and Jodie end up with an unwanted job when there is a lice-outbreak at school and get roped into giving a lice lecture at Lawndale High. But how will the Fashion Club handle this crisis...?

Diane Long

It's My Party and I'll Cry but Not in Front of You. Daria shares a little of her pain with Jane. It's Daria's birthday, but she's not in a party mood. Jane finds out why Daria is how she is, and Daria learns about friendship. When Jane tries to get Daria to celebrate her birthday, she gets much more than she bargained for!

Elizabeth Thaler

The Last Supper. Two very odd dinners prove that some people just shouldn't get to know each other better.

Eric Noss (Mr. Maddog)

This Must Be Paradise In 2010, a 28-year old Daria returns to Lawndale for a high school reunion, only to relive the past and blow everyone away. Justice is served.

Geoff Roberts

Gnome Improvement. Jake goes nuts looking for the garden gnome he hugged in "Jake Of Hearts" when it goes missing.

John Berry

Bond, Jake's Bond. Jake finds, to his dismay that he really doesn't know his girls at all, so he decides to take Daria and Quinn on a road trip in an attempt to bond with them. Naturally, things don't turn out quite the way he expected.

John Takis

Band Aid. When Daria and Jane join band to get out of gym class, they expected a break from corruption. Boy, were they wrong. With Quinn and Co. involved, the school in chaos, and a rich grant up for grabs, Daria finds herself wrapped up in a showdown between politics and greed.

Jon Kilner

The More Things Change... Daria is hurt when her latest accomplishment goes unnoticed by her parents. But she is not so alone as she thinks. You may be surprised to find out who rallies to her support.

Kara Wild

A Desperately Needed Ending (to Depth Takes a Holiday). It's the ending that puts the whole sorry mess that was "Depth Takes a Holiday" into perspective by saying: IT WAS ONLY A DREAM!!! And wait'll you see: the reality was even worse... Every fanfic writer (including me!) tries to explain what Depth Takes a Holiday was all about.

Kemical Reaxion

On Guard. It's career day at Lawndale High. And everyone must follow around someone... Quinn gets to be a dummy, Daria is forced to work as a crossing guard, and Jane get stuck...but you'll have to read it.

Larissa Simpson of L&B

Lack of Concentration Camp.

Mike Quinn

Race to the Finish. Fed up with the current administration, Helen decides to run for mayor, but finds herself unprepared -- at first -- for the battle she's about to face against the long-time incumbent.

Mike Yamiolkoski

Quinnderella Daria and Jane tell an old fairy tale with a new twist

Mr. Anonymous

The AD series. Daria's niece, Quinn – who eventually becomes her daughter.

Naomi Mattera/

Erin/Shallow15

The Daria Chronicles: Good-bye Lawndale. Daria begins attending college at Willmore University. Some familiar faces join her, with a couple of new ones thrown in for good measure.

Napalm Krigbaum

Daria: The Move The long awaited live action Daria movie.

Nemo Blank

Blast From The Past. Someone's action in the past, effects Daria in the present, putting her future at risk. Daria gets thrown into a madhouse.

Nicole Young

Sister-In-Law. A Lane/Morgendorffer family reunion, 9 years from now.

Paperpusher

Mirror, Mirror. After a day of dealing with Upchuck's come-ons and an all-night marathon of classic Star Trek and really bad pizza, Daria wakes up to find herself in an alternate universe, one where everyone she knows is brutal, sadistic, and cruel. How did she get there? How will she get home? Will this change her mind about getting revenge on Upchuck, or will she get even better ideas? And, most importantly, will she want to give up having Quinn as her personal slave? (Okay, dumb question.) If this sounds like a crossover between Daria and the classic Star Trek episode "Mirror, Mirror," you're absolutely correct. Don't let that scare you away, though; it's a hoot!

Rajchel aka Medea42

Bait and Switch. Daria is forced to go on a date with Kevin.

SDDB

Zit-A-Dee-Doo-Dah. Quinn freaks out when she has a pimple problem. Stacy freaks out when she misinterprets Daria and Jane's conversation and has the entire school believing that Quinn is dying.

Thomas Mikkelsen

It's A Wonderful Life, Not. Daria gets to see the world without her in it Daria meets her guardian angel, who shows her how the world would look without her. Unfortunately, the angel is a complete jerk. Soon, Daria's life is in danger.

Weirdgirl

Exit Upstage Left. Quinn & Daria's cousin Lara from NY comes to stay with the Morgandorffers and go to school at "Llllawndale High." Quinn worries that Lauren will threaten her popularity, and Daria and Jane get a big surprise when they meet her.

Wildgoose

The Last Journey Home. Twenty years into the future, a family tragedy brings Daria home from halfway around the world.

Yui Daoren

Life's Meandering. The Morgendorffer's relocate... and the locals don't care for them at all. Life's good - then it takes some bad turns for Daria, with positive consequences.

Put in an Honorable mention area. In it are:

**Barry Alderman**

**Death Of A Rabbit** After being overheard, Daria finds herself the subject of rumors.

**Brother Grimace**

**The Sun Will Come Out, Tomorrow…** Daria has yet another surreal encounter after the events of CB's DANGEROUS LIAISONS. Daria and a mysterious stranger take a surreal journey to discover the truth about her...

**Alchemist**

**The Missing Link** Episode 501 - When Link goes missing, will Daria be able to track him down before the worst occurs?

**Anastasia Hunt a.k.a. Madame Anastasia a.k.a. Evil Kitty 75**

**The Diaries of Quinn Morgendorffer** Quinn starts keeping a diary her junior year.

**Bobby Birks**

**Attack of the 50 Foot Butt** Beavis and Butt-Head devise a diabolical plan; Daria and Jane go to a gig with Helpful Corn and encounter disaster; and Mulder and Scully find their way to Lawndale in this delightfully discombobulated spooooky story. (Beavis and Butt-Head/The X-Files/Daria)

**Brian Taylor**

**Through A Closet Darkly** Watch the fireworks as Daria and Jane find themselves in a brave new world...

**Desanera**

**Untouchable Muse** In the future, Daria returns home to Lawndale, to confront Trent... sort of.

**Funky Wombat**

**The Quest For The Holy Cow **Daria & co. seem to revisit a lot of what we first saw in The Quest For The Holy Grail (Monty Python).

**Galen Hardesty a.k.a, Lawndale Stalker**

**The Whole Truth** A sequel to Renfield's 'Diary Dearest,' Daria tries to recover from the events of that fic.****

**Love Gordon**

**Behind The Pom-Poms: The Brittany Taylor Story **Is Brittany Taylor really the girl we know and love? Find out in this intriguing tale.

**M Man**

**Chocolate Girl: The *Other* Legend Of The Mall **The "missing segment" from the episode "Legends of the Mall."****

**Matt**

**Thanks, but no Thanks-giving **It's Thanksgiving, and Jake and Helen have the sudden realization that they're ineffective parents. So, in an quick-fix attempt of parent-child bonding, they whisk Daria and Quinn away to a private resort for the holiday, and end up dragging Jane and Trent along for the ride. Meanwhile, the Fashion Club enters the school Thanksgiving pageant... for all the wrong reasons, of course. Will Daria finally have a reason to be thankful? Will Stacy finally get a little payback? Find out!****

**Pd2294**

**Daria Walkers **The kids of Highland High walk for charity. Based on the Beavis and Butt-Head episode "Walkathon," with extra scenes featuring the Morgendorffer family.****

**Renfield**

**Seeing Things Through** Jane decides to give Allison a second chance. Caution: Contains spoilers for 'Is It Fall Yet?'****

**Ruthless Bunny a.k.a. Ruth Lys Margolis**

**Jane Muyo (No Need for Jane) **What if Daria and Jane didn't meet in Esteem class? What would Daria have done?****

**Season5girl**

**Halloween Daria **The title says a lot. This fic has no point, it just is. It's also my first Daria fic, so please, no flames****

**Shallow15 a.k.a. Erin Mills**

**The Daria Chronicles: Good-bye Lawndale **Daria begins attending college at Willmore University. Some familiar faces join her, with a couple of new ones thrown in for good measure.****

**Silentwitness**

**At The End **A glimpse of a funeral. A quiet observation.****

**Steve Galloway**

**Revelations** What would happen if Daria and Quinn found out that they had a thought-of-dead full-blooded older brother? Would things turn out for the better... or for the worse? A sprawling 15-part epic.****

**Sullengirl**

**Survivor** For a school news segment, six randomly chosen students of Lawndale High have to participate in a "Survivor"-like game. Daria finds herself being one of those randomly chosen and is marooned in the gym for three days with five other survivors. Who will emerge the victor?****


End file.
